


That's where you're wrong

by all_the_kings_ham



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, i'm not even sorry, more bad decision, some questionable age difference in the beginning part, this one is actually kind of stupid and cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_kings_ham/pseuds/all_the_kings_ham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's had enough at this point</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on The Boy Who, and I am... some nights. But I needed a little mental break from it before it wrecked me.
> 
> Take from me this is a legit short story, and not what I call 'short'- but really, really this time. Like, it's already done being written and it's under 50 pages.  
> See the things that I can accomplish when I have someone to supervise me?
> 
> a good friend and I started throwing stupid story ideas at each other and came up with this mess you see before you. So thanks to my lilBean.  
> She is to blame for this story as she provided half the words.  
> Most of the good ones and a few of the bad ones too.  
> she is good to me like that.

_You look like you've been for breakfast_

_At the heartbreak hotel_

_And sat in the back booth_

_By the pamphlets and the literature_

_On how to lose_

_Your waitress was miserable_

_And so was your food_

_If you're gonna try and walk on water_

_Make sure you wear your comfortable shoes_

 

Sam shouldered open the pool hall door, heavy backpack weighing at him as he made his way towards the formica table tops and tall chairs back near the small kitchen that seemed to cater specifically to truckers. It had been the neon sign in the window saying open twenty-four hours, ‘free coffee with purchase of twenty or more gallons of gas’ that had lured him here of all places. In such a transient populate no one was going to notice or look twice at some scrawny teen with bruised eyes and a hollow stomach.

It was warmer inside than out, loud and packed, but it helped stop the shivering that made his teeth clack. The last bus stop had been two miles back, and it marked the end of the money he’d taken with him when he left. What made him leave was not something he liked to think about. John's shouts, slurred but no less painful, left an open wound in his memory that not even the cold could take his mind off of. He closed his eyes, focusing on the overwhelming sounds and smells of the place, and when he opened them, a small, pretty woman stood by his table.

“What can I get you, sugar?” She had a nice voice, and distantly Sam thought that this is just the kind of girl Dean would prey on. The thought made his throat tight and he busied himself by studying his menu. Knowing that he didn’t have any money to pay for the food he was about to order- but this wouldn’t be his first ‘free’ meal on the road in the last week.  He cast a sidelong glance at the bank of pool tables in the corner, flanked with large men and a few women who laughed and teased with each other, then back at the menu. Safest bet was to order the cheapest thing; he didn't know how much money bikers and truckers typically carried, but even then he knew he wouldn't be able to get away with much.

"Just the burger please," Sam mumbled from behind the plastic cover of his menu.

 "Fries?"

Sam glanced at the menu, caught. Down a few tables a man was digging into crisp, gold fries, sipping from a tall, cold glass of Coke. Sam's stomach grumbled pitifully and he nodded at the waitress. She chirped something about speediness as she flitted away, but Sam wasn't paying attention.

His eyes were on the pool table.

All those things his brother had taught him buzzed quietly in the back of his mind. _Pick an easy target, Sammy. Don't go for skinny jeans, loose clothes mean loose pockets. Pick your battles; don’t go for someone who looks like they can run faster than you or hit harder. You’ll get your ass handed back to you and worse, you'll be shit broke._

He spied a likely target, a lanky blond in the corner, jeans and tshit, black leather jacket with patches on the shoulders, eyes already a bit red and glassy. Sam wasn’t the best at hustling yet (not all that much practice after all), but someone already swaying and dim from alcohol?

Yeah, he could do this.

Leaving his menu behind he made his way over to the tables, eyes down, doing his very best to look young and stupid and easy pickings.  Playing with that "kicked puppy" look Dean always said got Sam the farthest, grabbing a cue and eyeing it with a feigned look of excitement mixed with mild apprehension.

He stood by, watching people playing for a bit, edging closer to that sleepy looking man in the corner. He took note of the mostly empty brown bottle dangling from clumsy looking fingers and pale, winter colored eyes that tracked Sam's approach.

The man finally met Sam head on, taking in the skinny kid who was mostly arms and legs covered in a stolen jacket from his big brother. Awkward teenaged hands wrapped around the cue in a near stranglehold, like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“You play, kid?” The man’s voice was whisky rough, slow and warm.

"A little," Sam said, flashing a smile and rolling with the whole ‘kid’ thing which honestly made his skin prickle with instant, hot headed and admittedly rather juvenile anger.

The man nodded to the empty table that inhabited the corner with them. Unspoken little offer in the gesture. Sam glanced at it and wandered slowly over, back to the table to maintain eye contact and keep up light conversation. "What about you?"

“A little.” He offered a ghost of a smile.

Sam took a sharp breath. “I’ve got ten bucks.” Which was a huge lie, but that was ok.

The man raised an eyebrow, funny little hook to the edge of his mouth. “Alright.”

They played a short, clumsy sort of game, Sam intentionally missing shots, asking stupid questions and doing his best to play his worst. If nothing else, he got a few smiles out of the older man, and when he asked for a second game he got a shrug which was just as good as a yes.

"You sure you want to? You haven't been playing too well," the man said, leaning against his cue and staring at Sam with a cool, impassive sort of look that Sam couldn't quite read.

"Double or nothing, how about it?" Sam challenged bravely, and the man squinted minutely, gaze shifting into something complex and even more indecipherable before relaxing.

"Why not?"

And that was good enough for Sam. It’s not like he’d really done this in anything other than practice. But he’d been able to beat Dean at pool for years, and he felt like he had a chance at pulling this off. The man made a few major slip ups, Sam a couple of well aimed shots, and the 8 ball finally clunked into the pocket on Sam's turn.

The kid broke into a wide, toothy grin, dimples shining brighter than the bare bulb over the table. "I won," he practically sang.

With a rather straight face, the man nodded and kind of shrugged, wearing an odd expression that Sam couldn't see past his jubilation. “Fair enough.”

A crumpled twenty was set on the edge of the table and Sam was quick to grab it up and jam it down into his pocket. He could practically taste the burger he'd ordered before the game. “Thanks.” And he meant it, even as he shuffled away quick as he could. Not wanting to linger too long, lest the poor sap get suspicious.  

That burger, oh god, it was perfect- and it wasn’t just the fact that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. It was greasy and warm and had a pickle on the side. Everything that a burger should be and more.

The waitress from earlier drifted past his booth, setting a coke down beside his elbow, along with fresh menu.

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“On the house.” She winked.

And Sam wasn’t the kind to look a gift soda in the mouth, but… “Thanks?”

“Order whatever else you like.”

Was she hitting on him? She had to be at least twice his age, and Sam hadn’t showered in a long string of days. So no.  Probably not.

“I don’t-”

“It’s taken care of.” She smiled with a flash of teeth and wandered off. Sam stared after her departing figure like he'd seen a ghost, eyes wide and shocked.

"You need to learn to hustle better," a voice said, and the scrape of the chair against the floor ripped Sam's eyes away.

Across from Sam in the booth, the sleepy eyed man plucked at his fries, chewing slow and thoughtful.

“H-hustle?” He wasn’t really prepared for this. Nothing Dean taught him led him up to this point, besides throwing punches and bolting, but that was not a proper response to having someone buy you a soda… or steal your fries.

“Was it your first time?”

There was no good answer to that one so Sam kept his mouth shut.

The man continued to eat his fries. "You could've at least asked me my name. Or buy me dinner, but I got that one covered," he drawled on.

Sam looked sideways at the nice neon EXIT sign over the door.

“I’m Nick.” Though Sam had seen the lettering on the back of his jacket that said ‘LUCIFER’ and that should have clued Sam in on what a bad idea this whole thing was. The man stole some soda as well and waited for a few painfully long and strained moments before he tilted his head towards Sam. “This is the part that you say your name.”

Sam could almost definitely make it out the door before the long legged man could get to his feet.

“You’re a twitchy little guy, aren’t you?”

"I'm nearly six foot," Sam blurted. It was instinct.

The man, Nick, blinked at him slowly, almost smiling. “Congrats.”

Sam's face burned and Nick cleared off another few of his fries. “Do you want your money back?” He kind of whispered, half hoping he wouldn’t be heard.

Nick took a slow breath through his nose. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you?”

"What gave it away?" Sam attempted a smile, but it was as watery as his soda.

“Did you learn to hustle from a how-to book or something?”

Sam put his face in his hands, not sure if he was _just_ embarrassed or completely mortified.

The man who had looked fairly drunk before now just looked like trouble. Those red eyes were less alcohol and more tired. And those arms… he could probably crush the runaway who’d cheated him out of twenty measly bucks.

This was a bad target, and if Dean ever found out he would be oh so disappointed. More than that, honestly. He'd make Sam take the couch or floor for a month after a fuck up like this. But Dean wouldn’t find out and that little fact did nothing to make Sam feel any better.

“Look, kid. You try to hustle like that you’re going to end up in an alley with some busted teeth and empty pockets. Not a burger and good company,"

This was _good_ company?

Maybe Sam just had no proper basis for comparison. But Nick had just bought him dinner in response to a poor grab at hustling, so yeah, better company than what Sam likely would've ended up with had it been anyone else.

“And only twenty bucks? Really?” He shook his head, all kinds of disappointment. “It’s not even worth it at that point.”

And who the hell was this guy to criticize Sam’s tactic? It had worked, hadn’t it?

But then, looking at Nick stealing his food and finishing his drink, he realized, no, it really hadn't.

For some strange reason, this man stayed at Sam’s table, stealing every single french fry as he explained the finer points of hustling pool from strange men in dark pool halls. Warning him of the faults in all the things that he’d just done. Telling how to do it better next time.

“Are you getting any of this, kid?”

“I- I already know how to-”

“No. You don’t. Eat your burger. When you’re not starving you’ll realize how much you just fucked up.”

Sam found himself half leaning out of his seat, hand searching under the table for his bag. This man was going to end him. He was going to give him good advice first, and then he was going  to crush him with those very capable looking arms.

The waitress came back around and Nick ordered himself a beer, glancing at Sam for a moment before ordering one for him as well.

Sam’s fingers twitched, grip loosening as his bag settled back down. _A beer?_

Well, if they were ordering… and he didn’t have to pay...  “And another burger.”

 The waitress laughed softly, not even bothering to write the request down in her notebook. “Two beers and a burger, sure thing.”

If there was one person in this room who looked vastly under age, it was the scrawny kid at this table right here with his mess of dirty hair and his over abundance of knees and elbows. However, if his brother had ever taught him one thing, it was that you don’t turn down free drinks. Though there might have been a stipulation of those drinks being from women. And this probably wasn’t the time frame that Dean ever saw for his baby brother either.

What was a few years too early in the scheme of things anyways?

“I just can’t get over the twenty bucks.” Nick shook his head, pursing his lips.

Sam felt his shoulders going up, getting defensive at the criticism. “I figured if it didn’t work it probably wouldn’t be enough money to get me in trouble.”

Nick wrinkled his nose a bit, rather pale eyes narrowing. “That’s very _responsible_ of you.” He managed to make it sound like an insult and Sam found himself bristling even more, the same way he would if this were anyone other than a complete stranger sitting across from him.

Two beers were set on the table, dark amber bottles under the bar lights.

Nick took both bottles and pulled them to his side of the table, watching Sam’s frown deepen.

“I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just wanted dinner.”

“That’s another thing. You don’t take the money, walk a few feet away and sit down.”

“What are you, some kind of pool hustling guru?” Sam ventured, attempting to sound tough, but his puberty-wrought voice made the question tip up and crack at the end. He sounded like a freaked out kid. God, he was. He was terrified, and a goddamn child.

“No.” Nick’s mouth got tight with something that almost resembled a smile, and he glanced away to the green felted tables in the back. “But two or three towns from here, next time you’re looking for a bit of cash, the next guy you try an cheat might not be so nice.”

Sam’s second burger came, smelling just as good as the first, but his hunger had gone dormant. He prodded the bun, sitting as quiet as he could because he could feel himself teetering halfway between abject fear, and mouthing off like the smartass kid that he was who didn’t ask this guy for his help or advice.

Nick watched him for ten unbearably long, tortuous seconds before a hand appeared under Sam’s nose and Nick was snapping for his attention.

“Holy shit, don’t puke on me,” Nick said, tone tight and uncomfortable. When Sam looked up again, Nick’s red wrung eyes looked painfully sore, and Sam realized this guy probably hadn’t slept in a few days. Why he was spending his time in a bar, stealing food from some mangy kid bought with money poorly hustled off of him and coaching him on the ethics of stealing was beyond Sam. Suddenly, Sam’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his seat.

“Are you some child molester?”

The question was so sudden and so painfully blunt that it took Nick a good few seconds to register what was being asked of him.

Then he burst out laughing.

It was a harsh, shocked noise that soon developed into sleep-deprived hysterics. A few heads turned in their direction and Sam glanced at them nervously before Nick seemed to regain control of himself.

“Holy fuck. No. One, I don’t date _children_. Two, your hair is so long I’m shocked your evil step mother ever allowed you to leave the tower,” Nick said through gasping breaths. He straightened and slapped the table good naturedly, causing Sam to flinch. “No, no, I’m not gonna do anything to you. That’s really fucked up, sorry. No.” He shook his head at the thought before leaning forward onto his elbows, an odd glint in his eye.

“First, I want a proper apology for stealing off of me in such a disgraceful manner. Second, I’m gonna teach you how to _actually_ hustle so we can buy you a bus ticket back home.”

“I’m not going home,” Sam snapped.

“Ouch, what a tone. I was wondering about that, actually,” Nick said, inching Sam’s untouched burger closer with one finger under the lip of the plate. “You gonna eat this?”

“Fuck off, I don’t need this. If you wanna call the cops, fine. Thank you for the food, _sir_ ,” Sam hissed, surging to his feet and to the door. He didn’t bother to listen for Nick’s response, too busy trying to get the fuck _out_ of the bar.

He found the door and shoved passed it, greeted with sharp wind and cold rain. It wasn’t pouring but the sky wasn’t being too gentle either, the warmth of the bar radiating against his back. But his pride was alive and wounded, and he let the heavy door slam shut behind him with bitter satisfaction.

He was halfway down the street before he realized that he’d left his bag beneath the table. And it wasn’t like the old duffle bag held anything really vital in it. Change of clothes, some books, other stupid little odds and ends that had seem so very important the night that he left. But that bag _did_ hold literally the only things that he owned at this point. It meant something. He couldn’t just leave it.

Though it did take him a good ten minutes of standing in the cold, arguing with himself before he found the stubborn courage to get the courage to go back in.

There was Nick, still sitting at the table, burger gone, beer and a half looking fairly empty and the remaining french fries slowly vanishing one by one. There also sat Sam’s bag, right where he left it beneath his chair.  

“Did you come back to apologize?” He looked honestly surprised, catsup-less fry halfway to his mouth.

Sam narrowed his eyes. No ‘kicked puppy’ look left in him. He was still marginally terrified of this man, but it was instinctual. A reflex. Mostly he was just mad. Mad that he’d been caught. Mad that he hadn’t been treated like a proper criminal. Mad that Nick hadn’t even wanted his money back. Sam wouldn't have given it to him- but it was the principal. He was being treated like a little kid, like this man felt sorry for him.

Sam had had his fill of sympathy. He could take care of himself just fine. Certainly no one else was actually going to.

He grabbed up his bag, hoisting it up over his shoulder so fast he threw himself off balance and almost fell over.

Nick shot up and caught his arm, and the moment couldn't have been any more aggravatingly cliché. Fucking Nora Roberts worthy. Nick righted him and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Chill," he said calmly, his grip on Sam's arm loosening. "Kid, you look like a drowned rat. No offense," he added quickly when Sam gave him a scathing look.  

“Give me back my bag.” He said through gritted teeth.

"Gonna do something you and I won’t like and actually be an adult here," Nick said, frowning at Sam. He looked oddly much more tired. And...older. At that moment Sam would be very hard pressed to accurately guess Nick's age.

"You gonna call the cops?"

"Fuck no. I'm not a snitch," Nick scoffed, looking legitimately offended for a moment. "Look, I-- been in your place before. Running away and shit. Dad wasn't around and my mom--" He shook his head and continued. "I was stuck with some shitty living spaces. Ran away more times than you could count-- than I should." He cleared his throat awkwardly and dropped Sam's arm. "All I'm saying is that I've been in your place before. Take it from me when I say no one is gonna be able to help you out better. Never trust a cop and foster care is bullshit. I'm your best bet here. We got a deal?" Nick stuck out a hand, raising his brows.

It took a moment for Sam's normally sharp brain to dethaw under the heat of the proposition. Eventually, he brain managed to reconnect to his mouth, and he spurt out a short, shocked, “Deal?” Sam’s whole body felt tight. Tense and uncomfortable. “What are you even offering, old man?”

Nick smiled in an odd but seemingly genuine way, edged with a bit of humor. "Not _that_ old, brat." He said, shoving at Sam's hair in a teasing manner.

It was a gesture that Dean used to do all the time, and for an instant it made Sam feel at ease, even as he took a shuffling step backwards. It was too familiar of a touch and he didn’t like it. Not from this stranger. Not after everything that had happened these past weeks.

Nick seemed to notice the subtle motion and lifted his hand away. "Let's talk business," he said instead, smoothly avoiding the awkwardness that had threatened to creep up between them. "Your pool hustling is shit. Zero finesse. Sloppy. Amateur. You hustle like that--"

"I'll end up dead in an alleyway with some busted teeth and empty pockets," Sam recited. The sass came so naturally, so sharp and quick that he didn't notice what he'd said for a second. Nick looked the opposite of affronted. He looked almost...proud.

"You're gonna hustle like a pro."


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours and almost two hundred dollars later, Sam was actually starting to believe in this odd man who had decided to try and teach him the finer points of lies and cheating. It had very little to do with actual pool playing and everything to do with Nick  laying out an elaborate set of rules and standing aside while Sam was sent out to earn himself some cash.

People seemed to come and go rather quickly in this little truck stop-diner whatever the hell it was, and Sam never had all that long before Nick was quietly singling out some new target and urging his unwilling protégé back out into the fray.

“You need to play up that eager puppy thing a bit more.” Nick drawled slowly. “It’s working well for you.”

“ _I’m_ working well for me.” Sam didn’t want to argue that Dean had taught him how to hustle and he’d taught him just fine. There was no need to dwell on the fact that he had enough money to last him the rest of the way to South Dakota and then some.  

“Well…  you’re starting to get the hang of it either way.” Nick, who didn’t look any more stable, sober, or awake as the long hours wore on, noted through the seam of his coffee cup. Chipped white ceramic looking way too fragile in his worryingly bruised hands. Sam had taken stock of the purple and blue of the man’s knuckles a while back, the half healed scabs and fresher looking cuts. The violent graffiti certainly had done nothing to inspire trust, but at the same time Sam could feel a strange level of comfortableness settling in every time he came back to the table and the man was still sitting there, not asking for the money, or trying to touch him, or really doing much other than seeing how things were going and to give more unsolicited advice.

He choked down a smile and sat with what he hopped was a nonchalant shrug. “Whatever.” But honestly? The lump of crumpled tens and twenties in his pocket meant he was doing almost fantastic.

Nick shook his head, obviously not interested in buying the petulant teenager act. “So where’s this home that you’re not going back to?”

Three hours ago he would have told Nick to take a long walk off a short bridge into the fuck you river, but now he just shrugged again and sat down, slumping in his seat. “Kansas,”

“Eww.” Came the quick response complete with a flash of teeth and a look like he’d tasted something bitter.

“I know, right?” Really, he didn’t feel as if he needed a better reason to have run away. He had other reasons, great reasons, but the fact that it was Kansas seemed to be good enough for now. “So… whatever happened to that beer you ordered me?”

The one that Nick had drunk a few hours ago, along with Sam’s soda. Nick stared at Sam over the rim of his mug, which, Sam now realized, was probably at least half alcohol. If Nick’s hazy, thousand yard stare that didn’t quite meet his eyes, it might be a bit more than half. Sam could smell it from across the table.

"You're not twenty one," Nick said, slow, careful, and not very drunkenly. It phased Sam for a moment. "That would be illegal, Sam, and I'm not sure what you take me for," he said, lightly accusatory.

Sam watched Nick blankly. "You've been teaching me how to steal for the past three hours,"

" 's different. You need that because you gotta survive. You don't need to survive off this," he tilted his cup in Sam's direction then took a wincing gulp. "You don't want to." He hissed through clenched teeth, blinking rapidly through the awful taste.

"Are you trying to survive off of that?" Sam's voice was a soft, scratchy whisper, so quiet that he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud. Nick froze, gazing at Sam in a silent, unblinking manner.

Nick was quiet for a long moment.

Then,

"I've done a lot of things wrong in my life, darlin'," he answered softly, setting his mug down. There was a raw, apparent pain in his eyes that made Sam's insides twist. A night of bad doings and bar food was all they had under their belt, hardly anything for Sam to truly judge a guy off of. But he could tell this display of emotion was not a typical feat for a man like Nick.

And then, suddenly and so glaringly, Sam noticed Nick was smashed.

His red eyes were distant and unfocused, thick, calloused fingers moving lethargically across the rim of his mug. His speech was quite collected, although more honey slow and drawling than usual, but Sam supposed Nick had quite a few years of practice to get it that way. It was a dawning that made Sam faintly ill with concern. For what precisely he couldn't quite tell.

Sam had yet to find words, so Nick continued. A sober man would've changed the subject with a sheepish, defensive apology, but Nick was not a sober man and Sam couldn't talk if he wanted to, throat getting tight and he couldn’t tell why.

"I was eight when I first got drunk," Nick said, picking at his mug again. "Found a bottle of my dad's Jack that he left lying around. Was half full, not much, but little kids don't have high tolerance.

"I liked it. Thought it was magic. When shit got tough and Dad wasn't feeling too nice, I'd steal his drinks, empty every bottle till it kicked in and I couldn't feel a thing. Floatin' on clouds, too high for any of the bad stuff to touch me. Was a bad, bad habit that I was hooked on before I even knew what a girl was.

"Turned out, by the way, girls just didn't do it for me all the time. Dad didn't like that, spewed his typical God fearing bullshit. Didn't bother to bring up the fact it wasn't just women from those skeevy bars he was bringing home every night, was fucked enough already. No point.”

He had started to ramble about two sentences into this story, gaining frightful momentum, and Sam had a strange feeling that this man wasn’t even talking to him anymore. That Sam could have gotten up and walked out right then and Nick wouldn’t have even noticed.

"He kicked me out an’ I was on the street fffffor- what? Couple a months? Some elderly lady found me passed out drunk in her yard one morning and I was shipped off to foster. Hardly fourteen.Went downhill from there. I was a cute kid. People liked that. Helped sometimes, mostly not. Ran away so much that the sidewalk was more comfortable than any bed some bleeding heart could scrounge up for me.

"I got my shit together when I found out Dad knocked up a couple of more girls. Got two baby brothers now, took me a couple of years to even want anything to do with them. Gabriel-- He's an insistent little shit. Wouldn't leave me alone if I paid him."Nick smiled for a moment, small and crooked as hell but completely genuine. He tapped off beat against the ceramic with his short nails."Cas, though. I'm glad about him. He got a good mom. Sweet lady, took in Gabriel too without a second thought. I was nineteen by that point, old news. But- Shit. She's just as bad as Gabe. I still get fuckin' Christmas cards from her."

Sam’s natural instinct told him he should feel awkward, not...relieved. But for just a second, he got this man. Daddy Issues 101. Sadly, Sam could relate. He thought of John for the first time in days- despite his best intentions to the contrary. His stomach flip flopping and the memories of those still fading bruises coming back to him in dull, phantom aches.  

He wanted to leave now. He wanted to take his hard earned cash and maybe sleep in a bed tonight. To walk out of here, away from this man who was completely plastered and his beautifully simple ability to remind Sam of all the things that made him leave Kansas in the first place- and maybe if he hadn’t spent his early years peeling his father, and occasionally big brother off the floor- if he didn’t have this god awful Pavlovian response to drunk ass stupid old men- he could have left.

“You live around here?” He asked quietly, nudging Nick’s foot under the table.

It spoke to how far gone the man really was because it took nearly five whole seconds for him to blink slowly, his eyes dimly coming to rest in Sam’s general direction. “Huh?”

“Do you live around here? Maybe within walking distance?”

Nick’s whole face seemed to shut down, eyes closing and mouth going briefly slack as he got lost in thought. Struggling to come up with an answer.

“Yes?” He wiped a hand over his face, scrubbing almost angrily for a moment or two as he fought with something inside of him.  “No. I live in… in Colorado.”

“That’s a long way to go for a drink.”

“I’m on my way to New York. Jus’ stopped here for the night.” The slightest hint of a slur was edging its way into Nick’s words, easy to miss if you weren't listening for it.

“Are you staying at a motel around here?” Sam tried to use simple, small words.

“Yeah.” He looked around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “It’s that way.” One painfully steady finger pointed East-ish. “God awful wallpaper. Like the seventies out for revenge. All orange and- green and orange.”

Sam took a slow breath, feeling his busted ribs on the right side shift just a bit. He would have prayed for strength, if he was that sort of person. Instead he just tried to think about how this was the right thing to do and it would be _fine_.

“Can you show me?”

“Show you the wallpaper?” Nick managed to look at him like he had gone crazy.

Why did it always have to be so difficult to get a drunk home?

“Show me the room. Ok?”

His pale eyes narrowed and he took another slow drink from his mug. "You're some kid I met in a bar," Nick said cautiously, placing his drink delicately on the table.

"That you taught how to steal. What? Suddenly your moral compass is working again?" Sam scoffed.

“You’re trying to trick me.”

"I'm trying to make sure you don't do something stupid," Sam explained, using his patient tone that he reserved for drunken idiots, mostly his brother. John you couldn't sway if he decided he wanted to do something. Dean, however, Sam had learned to work with.

Nick chuckled, a soft, warm sound. “I’m not falling for that one again.”

Sam ground his teeth and got to his feet.  "This is ridiculous," he muttered, shouldering his bag. “Then can you show me to the bus stop so I can freeze my ass of waiting until morning when they start running again.” It was a dirty tactic, and a bit risky, trying to prey on this man’s weird want to look after him.

But it worked, because it always worked. He’d had years of playing Dean the exact same way, and he didn’t feel even remotely guilty as Nick pushed his ‘coffee’ away with a disgusted noise and slowly dragged himself to his feet. Head and shoulders taller than Sam.

“You’re not gunna wait in the snow.” He didn't seem pleased about it. It was as if being kind to Sam was as bad as having his teeth pulled. “Come on, you brat.” And with a convincingly sober swagger, Nick wandered his way out into the beginnings of a healthy snowstorm, one fist around the back of Sam's collar, leading him as much as he was using him for support.

They went the wrong way for about four blocks before Nick noticed his mistake and they changed direction, finally coming to a seedy looking motel if ever there was one.

"Mi casa es su casa.” Nick said, spreading his hands wide in a welcoming manner.

Sam looked around the little room, with its threadbare carpets and a tv that had to be at least ten years older than himself. “That is… some really ugly wallpaper.” Was all that he could think to say.

“I know right?” Nick nodded seriously at Sam then grabbed his bag and tossed it aside none too gently.

"Hey-"

"You," Nick pointed an unsteady finger towards Sam's chest. "Shut up. I'm tired. I'm gonna sleep. Goodnight," and then he flopped onto the only bed, clothes, shoes and all, before Sam could get in a word about sleeping arrangements or plans for the next morning.

He cussed, rolling Nick over to get at the blanket underneath him, but it was as good as pulling a nail out of the wall with his bare hands. He gave up.

He’d got the man here safe. Hell, he got himself here safe too, despite all odds, and he may as well enjoy it. Sam put his duffle smack in the center of the bed and layed down beside it, using it as a sort of safety barrier between himself and Nick. It made the little bed cramped and without the blanket he was freezing--the heater doing little more than coughing from time to time- but after a week’s worth of sitting up on a bus all night, he would happily take what he could get.

It was uncomfortable, but Sam had suffered worse and he managed to get to sleep at some point. When he woke up, he was considerably warmer and more cozy. The room was still dark and Sam slowly realized it was due to the blanket that had been tossed over his head. He heard the shower in the background, muffled by the fabric and the wall, and almost ignored it to go back to sleep when Nick started singing.

“ _Well, I woke up Sunday morning, with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt_ -” soft words hardly heard over the white noise of the water. “ _And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more for dessert_.”

Sam lay there, quiet and warm and not hungry for once, just listening to the peaceful decimation of a familiar song. Nick’s liquor rough voice made the combination of words feel strange, like Sam was hearing them for the first time.

“ _On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned_.”

Sam peered out from beneath his blanket, looking at the little red numbers of the clock to see that it was almost ten. He knew he must smell like the ass of a donkey and he needed to change his clothes, probably wash those first as well, but he was warm, Nick’s voice was soothing with the accompaniment of the shower, and there wasn’t much incentive to get up.

“ _And  there’s nothing short a’ dying… that’s half as lonesome as the sound of the sleeping city sidewalk, and Sunday morning coming down_.” The water shut off and Sam had no idea if it had just been an incredibly short shower, or he caught Nick at the end of the song. He knew it was familiar, whatever it was, but his half-awake brain refused to think this early after he’d finally getting a good and proper sleep.

The door creaked open somewhere behind Sam’s back. “Hey, kid. You awake?”

“No.” He made sure to hide his face in his pillow, pulling the blanket as firmly around himself as he could.

“Good. Go shower. You smell like you’ve been sitting on a bus for a week.”

And those words would have been almost hurtful if Sam didn’t agree. It took him a while, utilizing the time Nick was taking to get dressed as an excuse to lie there. Finally, though, his cocoon of warmth was ripped from him and he was assaulted by the harsh, frigid air of a room without heating in a Nebraskan November.

“Chop chop, kiddo, check out is in an hour,” Nick announced, tossing the blanket aside and then abandoning Sam to get something out of his bag.

Sam grumbled to himself and sat up, halfway out of his bed when he realized Nick had yet to button up his goddamn shirt.

Last night the man had been wearing a heavy jacket that had done a rather good job covering him up, making him seem even bigger than he apparently was. Without the extra layers he was all pale skin and lean muscle and a surprising amount of tattoos.

From where Sam sat on the bed he could see some half hidden symbol over his chest and creeping up the arch of his collarbone. Dark and colored lines down his arms, words Sam couldn’t decipher from this distance but foreign still wrapped around his skin of one of his lower arms while an intimidating and admittedly badass hammerhead shark occupied the other. The glimpse of his sharply jutting hip was heavy with ink, partially covered since some of it dipped under the waistline of his jeans, but from what Sam could see, it looked it might have been a pair of eyes, but really, it was anyone’s guess.

But Sam didn’t want to guess. He was sixteen years old and he found other humans to be fairly distracting. This one, God help him, especially. Kids his age were awkward with the occasional beauty, but Nick was…

He wasn’t _old_ , as much as Sam teased him, but he was definitely evened out like a man in his mid twenties would be. And just how he talked, he sounded like he had a few years on Dean, certainly acted a bit more mature.  

“Kid, I’m serious. You smell like public transportation. This is _not_ a good thing.” Nick glanced over while he buttoned up his shirt.   He noticed, Sam noticed that he noticed, but it was too late. A slow, sly grin unfolded on his face and he took his time buttoning his shirt up.

“You need some help over there?” Nick’s voice had dipped low, teasing and he inched forward. “I’m more of a helping people _in_ to bed, not out, kind of guy. But I’m willing to give it a try.”

Sam reeled off the bed, face burning, and with the grace of a newborn moose he scrambled into the bathroom.

“You’re such a creepy old dude!” He shouted in retaliation, best insult he could come up with in that second, slamming the door closed. Nick’s offended shout went unheard under the wild thumping of Sam’s heart and the rush of blood from getting up so quick that he ended up sitting on the edge of the tub, mildly nauseous. He stayed down there on the cold porcelain, questioning why he was here at the motel to begin with as well as the various other life choices that had brought him here.

Sam knew, logically, that Nick was just trying to scare him into getting into the goddamn shower.

Probably.

Maybe?

 His rational mind couldn’t humor any other idea, and what did manage to slip under his reasoning only made him even more lightheaded.

Nick was, no other word as appropriate, a Man.

Sam’s voice was still breaking and he was fuckin’ sixteen years old.

Life had found a way to grow incredibly complicated during this last year and today didn’t seem to be much of an exception.

“Don’t hear that water running, kid.” Came the vaguely threatening words through the door. Nick’s voice only a few feet from him.

“It’s Sam. Not _kid_.” Sam ground through clenched teeth, focusing on not throwing up. It wasn’t as if the idea of liking another man was sickening to him, it was just-- Everything. He didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to take his damn shower, get on his bus and ride the hell away from there, but he couldn’t get his ass up.

“Sam?” He tested out the name for the first time, repeating it slowly before he thunked against the door, making the cheap, thin wood tremble under his weight. “Ok, _Sam_. Take a goddamned shower or I’m leaving without you and you can pay the bill for the room.”

 _Without_ him?

Sam looked over his shoulder at the door, up in the general direction he thought that the man might be standing over him.

Who said anything about them going anywhere together?

Not Sam- and as his was the only opinion on this matter that counted for anything it was kind of important speculation they were suddenly working with. When he’d left Kansas he’d simply been aiming for North, figuring he would reach uncle Bobby’s or Canada in a few days and find a new safe life for himself.

“Where are we going?” He asked slowly once he realized that that was the only factor in whether or not he was willing to consider the options of _with_ or _without_.

“Shower.” Seemed to be the only answer that Nick was willing to give right now, and really, that was ok.

Sam took a short shower, scrubbing himself with the overly perfumed complimentary bar of soap. He scrubbed until his skin was pink and the already tepid water ran cold. He half dried himself with one of the scratchy towels and wriggled back into yesterday's’ clothes.

When he came out, Nick was on the bed, shirt buttoned up. He had an egg sandwich from McDonald’s stuffed into his mouth, eyes narrowed and brow pulled close in an intense stare. He was frowning at a map, tracing roads and routes with his fingers. His knuckles, Sam noticed, had been bandaged.

“Hi,” Sam ventured awkwardly. Nick grunted and tossed him the McDonald’s bag without pulling his eyes away from the paper. “When--”

“Before I got into the shower,” Nick said, rubbing the space between his brow in faint irritation. “It’s cold,” he added.

“I’ve eaten worse,” Sam retaliated, cautiously stepping towards the bed before remembering those embarrassing last twenty minutes of his life and plunked his ass in the tiny, uncomfortable chair near the door instead.

It was quiet, both of them busy stuffing their faces. Shame shut Sam’s mouth and put more food in him so he didn’t need to talk, and Nick seemed too invested in his map to even remember Sam was there.

It was awkward.

Sam squirmed, food finished, and realized he had to do the inevitable. Talk.

“How’s the hangover today?”

Nick glanced up. “Don’t have one.”

“How?” Sam scoffed, frowning in disbelief. Dean used to pull the same bullshit on Sam after bad nights, pretending he wasn’t half dead from dehydration and possible alcohol poisoning.

“You keep rubbing your forehead,” Sam pointed out when he didn’t get an answer.

Nick’s hand halted midpath to his forehead, and he narrowed his eyes.“I have shit eyesight,”

“Get glasses,”

“Glasses don’t really work well with my helmet.”

 _Helmet?_ Sam frowned, not understanding.

“It’s just when I’m reading,” Nick dismissed without clarification, waving his hand and squinting at the map.

“Or it’s a hangover.”

Nick raised his eyes slowly and glowered at Sam. The red ring around them was an answer enough. Nick was hungover as hell.

“I don’t need your sass,” Nick groused, flattening the paper and pointedly staring at it so as to not have to talk to Sam.

“Where are you trying to go?” Sam tried instead.

Nick closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose, a practice of immense patience.“You ask a lot of questions,”

“Your fault, you picked me up last night,” Sam shot back.

“I’m beginning to regret that choice.” He mumbled almost too softly to hear.

Sam just made a face at him and finished off the last bite of sandwich.

Finally, the older man sighed again and dropped his head in his hands. “No idea,” he muttered.

Sam glanced at him, breaking the long stare he had going with his sandwich wrapper. “What?”

“I don’t know where the fuck I’m going,” Nick snapped, grabbing the map and crumpling it. “Wherever, it doesn’t matter. Where are you headed?”

Sam sat there, stunned for a moment. His brain caught up, eventually, and he shifted under Nick’s withering look. “Sioux Falls,” he answered. It felt good to say it. It was a promise, a gleam of hope. Nick ran a hand through his hair and forced a loud huff out of his chest.

“Good. I can work with that. Who’s in Sioux Falls?”

“Nobody,” Sam replied defensively.

“Kid--”

“Sam,”

“ _Sam_ ,” Nick corrected himself. “I’m not dropping a child on his ass with some kind of fucking shit family member  than what he ran way from in the first place,”

“I don’t have a shit family.” Sam bristled. It was only half true, but it was one hundred percent not Nick’s business.

“Family or not, someone you left behind is still a jackass who beat you half to hell and will probably come looking for you at some point or another. You got a loaded gun on your tail and judging by those bruises and the way you’ve been favoring your ribs, ain’t no one going to be welcoming you home like some goddamned prodigal son.”

Sam huffed, folding his arms and doing his best to look annoyed in hopes of hiding the fact that he agreed with Nick, and that he was terrified. “My uncle’s in Sioux Falls.”

“We talking creepy uncle here?” Nick demanded.

“He’s a hell of a lot less creepy than you.”

Nick opened his mouth to object before snapping it closed. He made a displeased noise and grabbed his bag, a worn out looking Jansport that somehow still held. “How much do you have on you?” Nick asked, nodding to Sam’s overstuffed pockets.

Defensively, Sam put a hand over his stash of money he’d earned last night.

“Save it. I’ll ride you there,”

“You’ll… _ride_ me?”

“Oh my god-- I’ve got a bike, you ass,” Nick groaned loudly, but there was a bit of amusement in his voice.

Sam was tempted to make some kind of jab, asking if he could ride on the handlebars, but he decided it was best to shut up now. He’d already started to wear his welcome a little thin.

“You ever ridden a bike before?” Nick looked excited suddenly, grabbing Sam’s duffel as he passed him towards the door. “Now, my _real_ baby isn’t here right now. Off with a buddy of mine in Tulsa, sleeping in a castle like the princess she is,”

“You’re drunk again, aren’t you?”

“No, _Sam_ , I just know how to really appreciate a work of art,” Nick disagreed smoothly. “But you will never get a chance to meet her. So instead, I introduce you to my mistress. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Sam had half expected there to be an actual _bicycle_ sitting in the parking space outside of the motel room. Instead there sat a motorcycle, dusty from months on the road but still shimmering in last night’s rain. And really, he knew nothing about motorcycles. Dad and Dean had always been more interested in classic cars than bikes- but this?

He was still a bit on the fence about Nick, but he had strong feelings about this motorcycle.

“Helmet,” Nick said, tossing Sam an obnoxiously cherry red helmet out of a saddle strapped to the side of the bike. Sam ran it over in his hands before apprehensively pulling it up to fit it over his head. Nick’s chuckle was muffled, but not unheard.

“I use that for the girls I take home,” Nick supplied. “It’s a pretty little helmet for your pretty little head.”

“Shut up.” And Sam struggled to settle the stupid thing into place, letting it swallow up his head and he stood there in the parking lot, feeling like some sort of cherry red spaceman. The world had gone kind of dark, and his peripheral vision and ability to hear was all but nonexistent.

“Can I drive it?” Sam asked, voice coming out weird and distorted under the face shield.

“Fuck no.” Nick said with a cheerful grin before climbing onto his lovely chrome mistress and waiting expectantly for the kid to join him.

Sam jerkily swung a leg over the bike and awkwardly forced his arms around Nick’s waist, feeling the man’s laugh more than he heard it, against his chest when he pressed up to Nick.

“Don’t be shy with me, Sammy,” Nick tsked, roaring the bike to life. “And she’s a _she_ , not an _it._ ” He popped up the kickstand and revved the engine before peeling out of the parking lot and down the street far too quickly for the rain slick roads.

The sudden motion, adrenaline and surprise yanked his gut  up into his throat, causing his breath to choke out of him and get lost in the wind. Nick picked up speed when they hit the highway, and Sam, struggling to peer over the man’s shoulder, saw that they were pushing one-ten.

Sam forced himself to get used to the road hardly a few feet away from him on every side, slicing past at uncomfortable speeds. He flinched and squeezed Nick hard each time the bike rocked a little too far to one side, but they weren't major mistakes and really nothing to fear. As scared as Sam was, he could tell Nick was a skilled driver, and in terms of random Samaritans Sam met off the side of a highway, he landed with a fairly decent one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really am almost done with the next chapter of The Boy Who... but editing these already made chapters for this story is so much easier... and it doesn't make my teeth hurt.  
> Stupid boys are stupid in every story.  
> EVERY STORY
> 
> at least they get to be happy in this story.  
> It makes me feel better

 

They were going good for a while, mile markers and cars flying past with equal unimportance. They might have made it to Sioux Falls late that afternoon if the sky hadn't torn open and dropped all hell down onto them. It was a thick, icy sleet that came at them almost sideways, Sam’s jacket and jeans soaked through in less than a minute, and he was shivering so hard he almost fell off the bike by the time they pulled into a motel somewhere just inside Omaha's city limits.

Nick was cussing as he pulled Sam into the safety of the front desk, still holding onto him tightly as they raced against the vicious rain to their room that was, conveniently, on the other side of the motel lot on the second floor.

“This is stupid.” Sam said through the chatter of his teeth. This was literally the coldest that he’d been since leaving home and he was currently blaming the man curled around his shoulder keeping him from shaking to pieces.

“This is Nebraska in the winter, Sammy. What were you expecting?” He kicked the door closed behind them and started struggling to peel off his leather jacket, his shirt almost still completely dry.

Sam threw the stupid red, girly helmet onto one of the beds and scowled. “Don’t call me Sammy.”

"Hey, that shit's expensive!" Nick said, snatching the helmet and placing it gently on the table. This hotel was considerably nicer, with a decent TV, a mini fridge, an actual desk with a lamp, and two beds this time. It clicked, and Sam opened his mouth to voice his concerns but Nick waved him off.

"It was the first hotel I saw. Also, shower, don't change into those clothes they smell terrible. I'm gonna do some laundry. Change into these," Nick tossed Sam a fresh shirt and somewhat clean jeans from his own bag. "They're gonna be huge, but enough till your shit's clean." When Sam didn't say anything for a while, frozen in utter shock, Nick sighed irritably and shouldered Sam's bag alongside his own. "Hey, seriously, shower. And don't use up all the goddamn water!" Nick shouted as he bolted out the door into the pouring rain.

Sam kept on standing right where he was planted. He was good at it after all. Just dripping on the carpet and shivering and wondering why this man was so concerned with how bad Sam may or may not have been smelling after living in the same set of clothes for at least three days on end. The thought wasn't completely rational and Sam knew that, but he clung to it as he trudged to the shower and stripped his cold, soggy clothing off of his body.

They all _flooped_ in a wet pile on the floor, and Sam was even more surprised to see how much bigger this shower was then the place they’d slept last night.

This hotel was definitely a step up from the last one. It was probably out of Nick's price range, and although it might have actually been the first place that they’d come across once the storm hit, Nick was still going above and beyond.

The consistently running hot water managed to distract Sam long enough to not dwell too deeply on everything. He used most of the tiny shampoo and conditioner bottles and a good deal of the soap, scrubbing a couple weeks worth of filth and travel out of his shaggy hair that he'd missed from his last speedy shower. Even well after he’d finished soaping and rinsing he stayed standing in the beautiful heated spray, absently studying a long strand of his hair when a harsh banging shocked him back to reality.

"Oi, you're using up all the hot water, jackass!" Nick yelled, and Sam didn't have the heart to stay in even longer like he would of his brother was giving him shit. Nick had been treating him well, and even though Sam couldn't comprehend why, he wasn't about to be _that_ rude.

He dried off and changed into the clothes that had been given him, pants too long and shirt too big. He felt like a little kid. An almost six foot tall ‘little’ kid make pretending that he was an adult.

Nick was waiting right outside the bathroom door, leaning on the little sink, looking cold and unhappy. “Aw, look at you. Cute as a goddamned button.” He flapped a pale hand in Sam’s direction. “Now kindly get the fuck out of my way, I’m freezing my ass off here.”

Shoving his hands down in his pockets, Sam sort of side stepped around the taller man, dragging his feet, trying not to trip over the pant legs that were catching down around his ankles. Nick hardly even noticed it, making a beeline for the shower so quickly that he hadn't closed the door all the way before hopping in.

It wasn't long until Nick started singing, making up a fairly catchy song about how Sam was "a little brat for using up all the shampoo, but don't worry because he expected that (~ _princess hair_ ~) and got another." Then, he moved on to actual songs, the words cut through with the white noise of running water, and occasionally just warm humming.

Sam laid himself across the bed closest to the door, wrapped in the covers soaking up all the room’s heater had to give him. Eyes closed tight, he turned his head to the bathroom to listen.

“ _-where the secrets lie in the border fires, and a hmm hmmmm hmm, you’re never coming back. On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man- in a dusty black coat with a red right hand_.”

A slow shiver ran through Sam, but he didn’t think it had much to do with the temperature this time around. It was a song that tickled the back of his thoughts with recognition. Teasing him. He wished Dean was here. Dean would know the name of the song, who sang it, possibly even what year it was first recorded in. And all those nice neat and tidy facts would have been a perfect distraction from the roughness of Nick’s voice.

“ _He’ll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you’ve been a good boy- rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy_.” More humming.

Sam hugged himself, trying damn hard to remember the name of the guy who sang the song. Small desperation to find someone else’s voice to put the lyrics to, because there had to be a different way to say these words. A way that wasn’t so rough and low. A way that didn’t sound like a promise.

He tugged a pillow over his head and gave up on all other things. He was already having a difficult enough time crushing down the weird feelings he got when he looked at Nick, or when Nick touched him...

Being a teenager was harder than Sam had ever anticipated. He felt like no one had given him fair warning that his body would just decide to find the timber of someone’s voice so alarmingly attractive.

He found himself sort of torn between banging on the door and demanding that Nick shut up- or just getting his shoes on and leaving. The wind shook at the windows, howling like a great best and Sam curled up on his side, cocooning down into the blankets and pillows. Only wanting to feel safe and right for a few moments.

It had been a long time since things had been safe and right for Sam.

Nick’s voice certainly wasn’t helping- at least not the second part of the problem.

The water shut off, and mercifully the singing stopped with it. There was still humming, but Sam’s body could get over itself. There was nothing erotic about humming. At least there shouldn’t be.

Damn these hormones.

Sam stayed in his cave of falsely preceded safety even when the bathroom door opened. He even stayed in there when he heard the tentative,

“Hey, you sleeping?”

A few seconds of silence were enough of an answer and the room’s door opened and closed with a burst of winter cold air.It wasn’t panic that Sam felt, but it was definitely something more aggressive than confusion. He sat up, pushing off his blankets to see the room empty. He was alone except for a tattered backpack sitting in a friendly fashion beside his own duffle. No sounds of running water, no singing, just the hum of the heater and the rain against the window.

He drew his knees to his chest, assuring himself that the fact that Nick’s bag was still here, along with his helmet, meant that the man hadn’t just up and left Sam somewhere in Nebraska. And it wasn’t something that Sam _should_ have to worry about.

He’d run away from better people than Nick.

It’s not like Sam couldn’t make it on his own out here if he had to. It was just… just… there were too many weird thoughts and feeling that he wasn’t used to having.

He crawled out of his bed and went to his duffle, seeing that his clothes were all gone, but his cash was still there. Nick’s bag looked equally empty and Sam could only assume that this motel had a laundry room of sorts and that where the man had gone off to- if not this was a very strange and elaborate way to steal some dirty clothes.

Cash in hand, he left the room to wander the halls searching for a vending machine.

The air was calmer than when they had stumbled in, but still as wet and chilled as before. It tossed Sam's still drying hair back and forth, making his skin prickle with sharp goosebumps. He hopped from foot to foot, barefeet cold on the ground, not wanting to leave them on the wet concrete too long. The edge of his pants soaking up water and getting oh so cold around his ankles. Curse Nick and his super long legs.

Two sodas, a couple bags of chips and some swedish fish all clutched carefully against his chest and he shuffled his way back to the room, pockets heavy now with change.

And Sam wasn’t used to eating and not sharing with whatever company he found himself in- he supposed it had to do with there never being quite enough to eat between him and his brother, but they always managed. If one of them had dinner, they both did, no matter how small and depressing.

By the time Nick got back to the room there was a little lunch laid out for him on the table between the beds.  Sam felt really good about it too, like he had found a small way to pay the man back for the free ride up North. He would have kept on feeling great if Nick wasn’t holding a pizza box.

It sort of undermined Sam’s good intentions.

But his stomach started growling at the visual offering and who was Sam to fight basic human needs?

“Looks like we had the same idea.” Nick eyed the sodas and chips as he tossed the box down onto the bed beside Sam. “Pizza place right next door. Saw it when I was dumping the laundry.” He kicked off his boots and paused long enough to take in Sam sitting there, wearing his borrowed clothes. “Those are all way to big- you look like a little kid.”

“And you look like someone who doesn’t get a soda.” Sam huffed, pulling both drinks over to his side.

It didn’t get him the desired reaction. Nick just did his best to hide a glimpse of a smile as he took off his jacket and sat down, popping open the pizza box and grabbing himself a slice. “If the rain lets up you wanna keep driving, or wait til tomorrow?” He asked as he chewed.

In place of an immediate answer Sam stole a slice of pizza for himself. He needed some time to think. It wasn’t that he had fallen in love with this drifter lifestyle of his. He would honestly be more than happy to see his uncle and settle in some place that he felt remotely like home. Bobby would let him stay. The grizzly old man was one of the few people who would never hesitate to tell John exactly where he could get off.

So why was Sam faltering?

It had taken him almost two weeks to travel the distance that it would normally take a day to drive. He guessed he’d needed time to recover. Get his bearings. Calm down. Heal. Just be alone for a bit. Over the last few weeks he’d made some rather interesting detours into states that didn’t lay even vaguely in the path between Lawrence and Sioux Falls.

Maybe he was still on one of those detours right now.

“We can wait til tomorrow.” He decided after he’d wolfed down a slice and a half of pizza. Nick didn't question, nodding wisely as he devoured two pieces in a row. Despite Sam grounding him from soda, Nick reached across when his mouth was full and snatched a bottle from under him. Sam nearly choked on his food yelling at him, face burning in embarrassment as Nick laughed and downed half the bottle.

“You’re a jerk.” Sam finally settled on. It wasn’t a great insult, but it was all he could really come up with on such short notice.

“Yep.” Nick agreed easily as he laid back on his bed, flipping the tv on with the remote and settling in. “You old enough to watch rated R movies yet?”

Sam rolled his eyes and sprawled out in his corner, but not before snagging another slice of pizza. He wasn’t even going to dignify Nick with an answer.

"Seriously though," Nick said suddenly, turning the volume down for a moment. "Like, I’m not going to scar you for life or anything if I put on something too… graphic?"

Sam glanced up from over the table, brows raised. "Are you joking?"

“I don’t want to get accused of corrupting the minds of the youth or anything.”

“You spent hours last night teaching me to cheat drunks out of their money. I think we’re past that point by now.”

Nick bore his teeth for a second, an expression that had little to do with a grin. “Then we are going to watch Fatal Attraction, you easily corruptible thing you.”

“Isn’t that the one where she cooks the guy’s rabbit?”

Nick only turned up the volume and folded his hands over his stomach in place of a response.

It had been years since Sam had seen this movie and it had been old even then. Him and Dean staying up late, watching VHS tapes of forbidden films with the volume turned down to almost mute so that they wouldn’t wake their dad.

Actually being able to hear what was happening was a nice addition to the rewatch, right up until the first sex scene. Watching this when he was a kid, with no real understanding what sex was, it had just been weird. Watching it as a teenager was… well, it was different. It didn’t help that there was a relative stranger sitting not too far away. He didn’t really want to stare at the screen, because even when this movie was made the two actors were well past the point of being attractive.

“So…” Nick dragged the word out and Sam swallowed hard before risking a glance over. The man was looking up at the ceiling, examining the light fixture. “You ever play poker?”

Sam liked this diversion from the low moans coming from the TV.

“Yeah... I’ve played a few times before.”

“I’ve got a deck of cards in my bag.” Nick waggled a foot in the direction of his backpack and Sam took the subtle request.

Crawling across the bed he got to the bags and started digging around. First thing he found was two tarnished silver flasks in the bottom of his bag, one still heavy and cool to the touch. Sam pushed them aside and unearthed a battered deck of cards held together with a rubber band.

“Are you as bad at cards as you are at pool?” Something between hope and eagerness bleeding into Sam’s voice.

But when he didn’t immediately get an answer to the jibe he looked over his shoulder and felt confused that Nick was no longer watching the ceiling, or the TV, or even Sam’s face. His gaze a little further south.

Self consciously, Sam planted his ass down on the bed because that’s what you do if you think someone is checking it out. You hide it. And it had to be all in his mind, because when he double checked Nick was looking at him right and proper in every way that was socially acceptable.

“I’m… a bit better at cards.” He promised, rubbing his forefinger along his lower lip in a thoughtful way.

Sam’s  mind slowed down, higher thought processes shutting down and heat pooling in his stomach. Such a stupid thing to be distracted by. Embracing the fierce sense of stubbornness that had got him this far in life, Sam looked away and tugged the rubber band off the deck and started shuffling.

“Are we playing for money?” Nick tossed the TV remote and swung his legs off the bed, leaning close.

“Back off my cash, old man.” Sam had had to work hard for that and even if he didn’t need it for bus fare it was still his and he wasn’t about to give it up.

Nick breathed out a soft, husky laugh. “Well, I’m way too sober -and you are way too young for strip poker, so,” he snatched up Sam’s untouched bag of swedish fish and tore it open, dumping them out onto the table and starting to sort them by color. “We will just have to play for fish.”

“We play for fish.” Sam agreed and started dealing out the cards.

Sam lazily played for a few hands, but unlike hustling (which he still needed a bit of work on apparently) he could play a good game of poker. Many sluggish, boxed in middays in ass nowhere with no one but Dean for a good few miles were spent sharpening their poker skills. Dean had to usually wear shades when it came to going to and toe with Sam, but Sam had perfected a calm, collected face even when presented with an asshole cheater such as Dean.

Nick wasn’t much better.

But Sam could hold his own. He’d been cheated by far better players.

He laid down four aces, keeping his smile as under control as he could.

Nick tossed his own cards down in disgust. “How?”

“Maybe you just suck?” Sam suggested, taking Nick’s fish and eating one.

“Hey! Don’t eat the currency.”

Sam chewed loudly, mouth wide open, hoping that Nick could see every squishy bit of red candy fish. “I won these fair and square. I do what I want with ‘em.”

Nick collected up the cards and started to shuffle, quietly dealing out five cards each. Sam watched him carefully, focused on those sunken in eyes that so hardly even glanced at the cards. Sam slid his own close to him and glanced down, eyes off of Nick for half a second.

Quick as you like, Nick fingered over two of Sam’s fish, settling them into his own pile.

Sam didn’t say anything. Let the man steal as much as he wanted. He was still going to lose.

And what had that been last night about awful hustling? Obviously Nick had been speaking from experience.

“So, where are you from originally?” Sam asked off handedly as he traded two of his cards in, but the ones that Nick handed him were even worse.

Nick glanced up from his cards, holding them close to his chest. "Hm?" He was stalling.

“I am from the middle of nowhere Kansas,” Sam started, “and you’re _from_?” He dragged it out, waiting for an answer.

“Don’t really remember. Moved around a lot.” He made some slow, heavy eye contact as he slipped a hand over the table, stealing one more fish.

And Sam suddenly realized that Nick _knew_ he was caught, probably knew from the beginning that he wasn’t gunna make it. He just didn’t care. Subtly was thrown to the wind as he settled with flat out cheating.

"Hey!" Sam yelled as Nick swiped a hand forward and hooked a huge handful of the fish over to his corner. “You fucking prick!”

Nick grinned. "Language, Sam," he crooned, popping a fish into his mouth which he almost choked on when Sam kicked his shin violently under the table. ”Hey.” He grunted back.

“Fish thief.” Sam accused with no remorse, throwing the two of clubs at Nick’s face.

The older man growled, or something akin to it, and lunged forward, making a move for the remainder of Sam's fish. Sam yelped and half protected his winnings, half battled Nick's much stronger and larger hands. It was a messy scuffle and many fish were tossed down to the carpet or squished under flailing limbs, cards absolutely everywhere.

Sam ended up on the floor between the beds, laughing and breathing hard, knees up against his chest and smiling up at the terrible cheat who was looming over him, arms braced against the bed and table. No one had fish now. Or cards. There was just a mess of what was once a rather lousy game of poker.

“It’s a good thing that you decided to try and teach me how hustle pool and not cards. You suck.”

Nick licked his lips slowly, odd little thoughts passing over his face before he settled on a slow smile. “Yes I do.” His breath suddenly went sharp, and he quickly sat back on the bed, kind of chuckling to himself as he stretched out, lying on his stomach. Carefully bandaged fingers were curled as he folded his hands over his stomach. Peering sideways at Sam. “You made a mess of the fish.”

“ _I_ made a mess?” Such lies. “Dude, you are a terrible poker player, and a terrible cheat.”

"How do you know I wasn't just going easy on you?" Nick's voice took a different pitch, head tilted back an inch. He had an easy smile on his face, but his teeth were sharp like a shark's.

“Because I’ve had guys take it easy on me before.” He pointed a rather accusatory finger up at Nick. “That wasn’t easy, it was just sad.”

Nick’s eyes drifted half closed. “Maybe I _could_ work on my poker face.”

And Sam was still young enough at this point in his life that he didn’t realize that he was only being pandered too. The older man causing a scene and playing poorly because it made Sam happy to be better than someone for once.

“I’d offer to try and teach you,” Sam sighed, “but… you’re a mess and I just don’t have that kind of time.”

Nick chuckled and shook his head before reaching down and picking up one of the wayward fish.

Sam felt a flash of horror. “You’re not going to eat that.” It wasn’t a question.

He grabbed up two more of the little candies. “I have had so many worse things in my mouth than floor fish.”

Sam watched the man shamelessly eat candy that had been tossed and squashed, and he wondered what worse things had passed those lips. Nick had a strangely distracting way of eating. Sam had noticed the same thing last night while watching his french fries being stolen away one by one. Nick had sucked on the fries, probably getting the salt off first- almost excusable. But there was no good reason why he was sucking on the fish. Bright stripes of color down his tongue.

Apparently Sam had been staring, and he’d been doing it for too long, because Nick took notice and held out one of the flattened gummies.

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, recoiling. “Nah, I’m good.”

But Nick wasn’t interested in _no_ , and he gently poked the fish against Sam’s lips. Insistent little prodding until Sam bore his teeth. If there wasn’t a bed at his back he would have scuttled away.  

“Come on. You know you want one.”

“They were on the floor.”

“It’s candy.”

“So?”

“Candy doesn’t fall under the normal five second rule. Never goes bad.”

“That’s not true at all-” Sam half choked on the fish that Nick managed to toss into his mouth with stunning accuracy. Angrily, Sam mumbled through a series of disgusted noises but couldn’t bring himself to spit out the candy. The hotel room was too nice to mess up the carpets. “God, this is so gross.”

“Why’d you buy the fish if you don’t like them?”

"They've been on the floor!"

"The people vacuum here," Nick countered carefully as Sam reluctantly chewed and swallowed. Nick shamelessly ate the rest of the candy off of the floor and then proceeded to lazily retrieve the cards that had also gone tumbling far and wide in the small space between the beds.

"Pick a card, any card," Nick said to no one in particular, flicking an ace supposedly toward Sam but then back into his own hand in a mesmerizing arc before throwing it over his shoulder, ignoring where it landed in light of doing the same to a few other cards. Nonchalantly flicking them away then back into his hand in a boomerang motion before discarding it to repeat with a new card. He was making a mess, every card he’d collected just going back on the floor as his hands fished idly through the disaster around him.

Sam felt his eyes go wide. “Show me how to do that. The tossing… thing.”

"Hm?" Nick didn't even look at his hands as he repeated the action. Catching the card between his fingers as he tried to do an odd, snazzy slight of hand trick that fell short since the card was too large and he wasn't exactly paying attention.

"Works better with coins," He muttered to himself, twirling the card between his thumb and forefinger. "And sitting up," he added, hurling himself into a more upright position with a strained grunt.

Sam got to his feet, plopping down on the bed beside Nick. “Show me.” He demanded again.

For years he’d watched his brother do the same kind of little finger flourishes and for years Dean had flatly refused to teach him how to do it. Something about Sam stealing the thunder, which Dean probably was referring to impressing girls, but Sam couldn’t care less about impressing people. He just wanted to learn it because he hated that Dean could do something that he couldn’t. Especially something cool like this.

Nick sighed heavily and maneuvered himself so he could sit lengthwise on the bed facing Sam. His long legs sprawled out carelessly, one ankle brushing Sam’s hip, the other leg crooked over Sam’s thigh. Suddenly no respect for personal space what so ever.

Half sitting in Sam’s lap and this close, the kid could smell last night's booze still faint on Nick's breath, mixed with the unmistakable scent of hotel bath soap, cigarettes, and then something oddly unique that was entirely his own.

Sam almost shrank away, not liking the sudden proximity, but the man's’ hands were still dancing the cards over his knuckles, twisting them between his fingers and all Sam could see was the deep bruises. Blues, purples and sickly shades of green all in alarming detail where the band aids couldn’t quite hide, like looking at everything under a goddamn microscope, and it froze Sam's breath in his throat.

He’d never been this close to a girl before, always more focused on school work and grades and other things that Dean had complained were far too boring. Problem was, Nick wasn’t a girl. He wasn’t one of those sweet soft young ladies in Sam’s class that were always smiling at him and giggling and asking to borrow a pen. Nick was a grizzly, bleary eyed, monster of a man. And you know, most importantly, _a man_.

Sam’s body forgot to care about such facts.

Giving him only a resounding chorus of ‘close’.

And close was good.

That was about it right now.

Just close.

Nick twirled another card between his fingers, voice low and smooth. "See, what you do..." and then suddenly, in a beautifully fluid motion, Sam was pelted with a card, square in the nose, and Nick was rolling back with warm laugh.

Sam blinked stupidly, brain taking a moment to catch up to the small pain between his eyes. “Son of a bitch.” He borrowed one of his brother’s favorite battle cries as he started reaching for anything he could find to use as a projectile.

"A magician never reveals his secrets!" Nick kept laughing, dodging the pillows and cards Sam chucked at him in retaliation.

"Seriously. You asshole!" Sam snapped, grabbing the empty pizza box and whacking Nick over the head with it. "Fuck you," he added after a moment.

Nick didn’t miss a beat. “When, where, and how hard?” Same smart ass kind of answer that Sam sort of expected at this point.

But he didn’t have a good comeback. All he had was a painful blush that felt like it started somewhere mid chest and ended a few inches above his head.

It only made Nick laugh a bit harder. “I’m joking. Christ, kid. You’re not even my type.”

“Lemme guess,” Sam tried to sound confident and sarcastic. He’d had years worth of practice and it was an easy rhythm to fall into even though his heart was still jackhammering. “You prefer other old, smelly, alcoholic biker dudes like yourself.”

“Nah, I try never to go to bed with someone who could take me in a fist fight.” He leaned back, resting against the headboard, those damn legs of his stretched out, taking up the majority of the bed. “Trust me. This is golden advice. I speak from experience.”

“Right. Just let me jot it down in my notebook.”

“Laugh it up, you scrawny ass little punk.” Nick waggled a finger at him. “But years from now, when you’re actually old enough to have sex, and you find yourself under two hundred pounds worth of a muscley, hairy lumberjack named Steve, you’ll think ‘why oh why didn’t I listen to that nice old man who gave me a ride that one winter that I ran away from home’?”

“You’re a _nice,_ old man?”

Nick sort of shrugged. “Well, I’m old.”

They could agree on that at least.

The man was definitely too old for Sam to be so completely distracted by the way the blues and greens of the tattoos curving over his wrists and up his forearms so nicely mirrored the bruising on his hands. Almost like it was intentional. Sam found himself half reaching out, wanting to trace all those lines and map out the patterns that were still half way hidden to him beneath shirt sleeves.

“How old were you when you got your first one?”

Nick’s eyebrows went up a fraction, licking his lips thoughtfully. “My first lumberjack named Steve?”

All the heat that he’d finally started to lose came right back to Sam, ears burning. “Tattoo.” He said weakly. “How old were you when you got your first _tattoo_?”

“I was probably about your age.” He paused and scrutinized the gangly kid sitting at his feet. “ _Ish_.”

“What did you get?”

Nick held out his left arm in answer, wrist up, and there Sam saw a faded little bird with outstretched wings.

Now was as an acceptable time as any and Sam reached out and ran two fingers over the old ink. Nick’s arm cold enough that there should have been goosebumps. “Is that a sparrow?”

And Nick got an oddly specific smile as he leaned closer to Sam, giving him a better look. Like a proud papa showing off photos of his kids. “Sure is.”

Sam traced a wing and kind of nodded to himself. Half remembered pages from a library book rolling to the front of his mind. “Sparrows stand for the love of freedom above all else. They used to be popular with sailors, but became a prison thing back in the… the fifties I think it was.”

Nick blinked and pulled his arm back in a fraction, eyeing Sam with a new, more curious expression.

“I ...read a book on the history of tattoos.” He attempted to excuse himself, realizing that he’d let his inner nerd show.

“ _Why_?”

“I like to read.” He tucked his hands into his lap, knotting his fingers and trying to not be embarrassed anymore than necessary.

Nick pushed up his sleeves and held his arms out like an offering. “Tell me about the rest of ‘em, smart ass.”

And Sam was many things, but an expert on tattoos? Nope. Not even close. However that was not going to stop him. He inched himself closer, scooting over the rumpled blankets and examined those colorful arms. Above the little bird stretched the silhouette of tall trees, reaching all the way up to the cook of Nick’s elbow, the ink sort of collecting and pooling along the long lines of tight muscles. The right arm was all japanese woodblock style water and a stunning hammerhead shark.

Nick let Sam pet his arms, turning them and looking over every inch. “Well?” He asked expectantly and Sam was forced to just kind of shrug.

“I don’t know.”

“This one I got in Florida.” He lifted the right arm. “This one in California.” The left arm and its trees. “I lived in both states for a long time, longest I’ve ever stayed in any place. I don’t think they honestly mean anything other than I liked living on both coasts.”

“Oh.” Sam felt almost disappointed, like he’d been hoping to learn some great mysteries of life here only to discover that this man just liked the ocean.

"You ever been?" Nick asked, snapping Sam's faraway gaze back onto him.

Sam remembered faintly a coastal breeze, sand in uncomfortable places and a night on the beach, but it was short lived and distant. He had been, he knew that much, but he couldn't recall where exactly except that it had been somewhere in the East and the water had been freezing.

"Yeah, once," Sam said, scowling as he sorted through vague details. "I was little, though. I don't remember much at all, really,"

Nick nodded thoughtfully. "We're too far inland, but any closer to either coast and we would've been taking a detour."

The idea made Sam's cheeks heat again, and his stubborn mind would not let the fantasy fade: Nick under a clear blue sky, wind and sun in his hair, and, most importantly, shirtless. Probably soaked. It was brief, incredibly juvenile, but intense, and it made Sam blush an alarming cherry red.

Nick caught it and grinned. "What're you thinking about, kiddo?"

"Nothing," Sam snapped, looking anywhere _but_ Nick's chest, which he knew from a half second glance that morning that there was a few other tattoos hidden just under his shirt.

Nick rolled his head to one side and stared at Sam, making him squirm. Deducing, calculating, finger tapping against his own knuckles in thought.

Then, he straightened, as if something clicked and he finally understood what Sam's expression was telling him. Sam braced himself for a boot out the door, but then

"You want a tattoo of you own.”

And he’d never really considered, but at the same time, it was a much easier out than saying that the fascination came from a want to run his mouth over the colored lines down Nick’s body. Because holy hell. That couldn’t be normal.

“Like a big ol’ heart that says ‘mom’ or something- right on your ass, right?"

Sam glared at Nick in horror, then in surprise, relief, and finally, naturally, anger.

"Dude, _what_?" Sam yelped, voice cracking in horror. "Holy shit man, no! Gross! God, _no_!" Sam grabbed the pizza box again and smacked Nick hard with it wherever he could hit him, and Nick was too weak from laughter to properly defend himself.

"You disgust me," Sam accused, but it lacked a surprising amount of malice.

“Who even talks like that?” Nick got out between warm chuckles. “Seriously. _You disgust me._ ”

"You’re a gross old man and I'm just stating the facts," Sam said, holding to pizza box threateningly over Nick's head.

Suddenly, in a flash of too long of limbs and much stronger arms, Sam's only line of defense, his beloved pizza box, was ripped from his hands and tossed across the room. Sam made a leap for it, but Nick caught him and dragged him back, pinning him to the bed with a pillow over his chest.

"Getoffame!" Sam choked. But Nick lounged like a fat, happy cat on the pillow trapping Sam, long, bruised hands folded leisurely over his chest.

"You see, one can only let himself be insulted for so long. Yes, compared to an infant such as yourself I may be old, but by god, I do have my pride," Nick said in a soft tone, wiggling atop of Sam in a way that forced his breath out uncomfortably.

"Stopit!" Sam coughed.

"I didn’t hear the word _please_ ," he corrected gently.

"Holy shit," Sam hissed. "Yerkidding,"

"Oh dear, this is such a lumpy pillow," Nick brought his elbow down on the pillow, a well aimed hit to Sam's gut that made him cough again. Despite the shockingly little room to breathe, Nick really wasn't suffocating Sam. Just...being a prick. A large, heavy prick.

"Nick," Sam tested, more amiably this time.

"Sorry? My ears can’t hear rude teenagers."

Sam closed his eyes and tried flailing his legs in an attempt to dislodge Nick, but he would not move. He had a good fifty pounds on Sam, probably more, and a damn good deal of it was solid muscle.

Sam had no other choice and as delicately as he could through clenched teeth he got out " _please_ would you kindly get the fuck off of me,"

"Oh god, Sam! Are you okay?" Nick laughed, immediately pulling off of Sam and lifting the pillow to check on him. "Didn't notice you were there." A shit eating grin said much otherwise, and Sam would've shown him how he really felt about the whole ordeal, but it was obvious that Nick could very easily overpower him.

If Sam hadn’t spent a lifetime roughhousing with his own brother then this all might have gone a lot worse. As it was he was still healing up from the night he ran away, and this little tussle had made his ribs ach in an old, familiar way. But he wasn’t thinking of John. He was remembering battling Dean for the last Oreo in the pack. He was calling up ways that he’d found the right kind of leverage to throw his big brother down for the few seconds that were needed as a distraction to let Sam get to the shower first in the morning. And at least a dozen other wrestling matches that he’d learned how to win.

Nick got off the bed, terrible smile still in place as he stretched. A sense of victory in every arch and line of his body. “I’m gunna go get the laundry.”

“Fine.” Sam bit off sharply. He waited for Nick to go for the door, and then he was up off the bed, trailing after him on fast, quiet feet, grabbing hold of the man’s arm and pulling it tight behind his back in one easy movement.

“Whoah, hey.”Nick tried to turn around, but Sam was right up against his back, shuffling in an awkward circle along with him. “That is some mighty kung fu level sneak attack and all, but let go.”

“You are a giant jerk.” Sam pulled up on Nick’s arm, twisting the man’s shoulder. “And really heavy.”

“It’s because I eat my Wheaties.” He grunted, abjectly refusing to acknowledge that Sam could actually do some damage from this position- though it might have had something to do with the fact that neither of them thought that Sam would actually go through with it.

"I can break your arm," Sam warned. "Or at least make it really hurt like a bitch," he added when Nick huffed in disbelief.

"If you can even hold me," Nick said, and suddenly he was a corpse, falling back on the only support nearby: Sam.

It went very disastrously very, very fast.

Sam veered off to the right to avoid being crushed, but his hold on Nick brought him down with, weight distribution and gravity working against them. There was an odd little noise, like a soft _pop pop_ and Sam just barely managed to miss being completely squished, but half of Nick caught on the open door on the way down while the other half pinned him to the floor.

Sam groaned loudly and wiggled out from under Nick as he pushed himself into a sitting position, and he was midway to his elbows when Nick grabbed his collar and pushed him back down.

"You make a terrible landing pad, brat," Nick growled, and Sam managed to turn his head around enough to see that amidst all the twisting Nick had lost his top few buttons. "And this is my favorite shirt,"

Sam's brain went blank, eyes focused on the glimpse of skin the ruined shirt allowed him to see. Nick's face loomed inches away, breath hot on Sam's cheeks. He glanced up, expecting to see anger, but instead was greeted with a deeply confused scowl. As if Nick was trying to figure something out and couldn't.

“Oh no,” Sam mumbled, still feeling stunned, but no less of a smart ass. “It was an ugly shirt.”

"You're crossing into dangerous territory, Sam," Nick said, oddly halting. There was a warning in his voice that went unheard.

"You have others?" Sam tried. He had a feeling he knew where Nick was going with his warning, but stalling was a Winchester's second nature, and Sam was in a rather easily distractible state at this point in his life.

“...others?”

“Tattoos.” Sam half reached out, and kind of jumped when Nick smacked his hand away.

“Curiosity like that’s gunna get you in trouble.”

Sam bore his teeth, rabid dog kind of expression. “Excuse me. Didn’t know they were supposed to be secret.”

“They’re not- fuck. Just-” he got to his feet, swaying awkwardly for a moment and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Just fuck.” He pointed a very serious finger at Sam. “Stay down.” And Nick left- hopefully to go get their laundry. His motorcycle keys and helmet were still here, so he couldn’t get too far.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really a relief co-writting with someone else because I can just come back to the story after a half hour break and suddenly the difficult to write parts are done.   
> No joke. It takes me WEEKS sometimes to write even halfway decent kissing scenes. This story was so quick and easy and non stressful to write knowing that someone else was going to take care of the hard parts.
> 
> haha
> 
> hard parts

And Sam didn’t stay on the floor. Why the hell would he stay on the floor? He got up, rubbing the carpet burns on his elbows and the sore spots where his ass had hit too hard on his way down. He busied himself with picking up the few scattered fish and the deck of cards, and when Nick still hadn’t come back, he started playing solitaire.

The wayward ‘responsible adult’ returned around the time that Sam realized he didn’t stand a chance of winning this round of cards against himself. The man held an armful of neatly folded clothes to his chest, kicking the door closed behind him. “Thought about it- and you’re trouble.”

Of all the things that could be told to him, Sam was expecting a hell of a lot worse right then. He gave the man a sour smile and started collecting back up the card and reshuffling. “I’ve heard that before.”

“I believe that.”

Nick set the stack of clothes down beside Sam and only then, when he was that close, did the kid realize that Nick had ditched his buttonless shirt in favor of one of Sam’s. Simple grey tshirt that honestly had been stolen from Dean two weeks back and it wasn't like the original owner was here to object- also, Sam was still wearing the clothes he’d borrowed from Nick. It managed to make them both look slightly out of place, but Sam kind of enjoyed the unfamiliar textures and he actually had no intention of giving back the shirt and jeans.

Nick loomed over him for a few seconds too long. “You’ve brothers, don’t you.”

“That obvious?”

“You’ve got the whiley look of a little brother… yeah. It’s obvious.”

Sam chewed on his lip and sized Nick up, wondering how much of the drunken rambling from last night could be believed. “Just like it’s obvious you’re some poor guy’s big brother.”

Nick looked down at himself, thoughtful little frown.

“You sit on people like a big brother.” Sam clarified.

“Ah,” he kind of nodded, slowly then he got a smile and his movements became more confident. “I never had much practice, but I guess it’s more of a state of mind than anything else.”

“Two little brothers, right?”

The confidence went right out of Nick as his back went rigid.

“You get super talkative when you’re drunk.” Sam clarified.

“When was I drunk?”

“Well let’s see- I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours at this point- so _last night_ maybe?”

Nick’s mouth became a thin, unhappy line. “Didn’t think I had that much.”

“Dude, you were loaded.”

Like this news was sort of disappointing, but not at all surprising, Nick just shrugged it off and started divvying up the pile of clothes. He left Sam’s on the bed, and took his own to his backpack, shoving his things unceremoniously inside before retrieving one of the flasks and retreating back to his bed.

“It’s raining again.” Nick said like a toast before taking a hard swallow, wincing just a bit and then looking for the tv remote.

“Starting a bit early today, are we?”

“Would have had to have stopped at some point to _start_ back up, wouldn’t I?” He winked, and then looked startled, like his actions were as much of a surprise to himself as they were to Sam. Slowly, carefully, Nick broke their uncomfortable eye contact and turned back to the tv.

“I guess it’s good that we weren't planning on leaving today then…”

Apparently Nick had passed the point of banter between their wrestling match and when he came back to the room, because he didn’t rise to that, just took another slow drink.

“You going to share?”

“Sure, in like ten years when you’re old enough to drink.”

Sam loudly shuffled the cards. “I’m a bit older than eleven.”

“Then you can have a drink a bit sooner, can’t you?”

“It’s not like it’d be my first drink.” He mumbled and started laying the cards out in neat little columns.

“Don’t care if you regularly have a glass of wine every night with dinner, or if you go through a twenty-four pack a week. I’m already in enough trouble right now- I don’t want to add enabling a minor to my rap sheet.”

Sam grumped and rolled over, putting his back to Nick and playing his game of solitaire.   

“So, what’d you do- like steal one of your dad’s beers?”

The seven of diamonds got laid over the eight of clubs. “My brother gave me a fake id for my sixteenth birthday. Took me out and got me good and drunk. But he’d been sharing his drinks with me for a year before that.” Sam left out the part that he’d only turned sixteen this past spring. But it wasn’t like he was asking to got totally wasted here- he just wanted a taste.

Half an hour later, when he glanced over his shoulder for roughly the hundredth time, he saw that Nick was on the downward swing of things. Rosey cheeks and lidded eyes. And Sam wasn't the bravest of kids. In fact he’d used up most of it two weeks back when he’d packed his duffel bag and left at three in the morning with a bloody nose and a pocket full of cash stolen from his dad’s wallet. Still, he summoned up whatever courage a nervous teenage boy can find and moved from one bed to the other.

Nick looked up at him, a few second’s delay in his reaction. “How long have you been here?”

“What are you drinking?" Sam asked instead, casting Nick's liquid poison a quietly surprised sidelong glance at how fast it had managed to shove Nick off kilter.

Nick swirled the flask around, the swishing sound of liquid lighter than it would be if full; it was almost empty.

" ‘s just whiskey," Nick said, thoughtful and soft. "Not drunk enough yet," he added. "Just a lil'...out of it,"

And it was true, Sam could tell. A hammered Nick was much more talkative, words flowing off his tongue like water that was as pungent as the whiskey he drowned himself in. Nick wasn't at that point, not yet, but he was just suggestible enough for Sam to get away with what he wanted.

"Drunk enough to show me the rest?" Sam questioned. For a moment he was sure he'd been too vague, but Nick finally managed to process Sam's words and silently finished off the rest of his flask.

He didn't wince this time.

"You're still in trouble," Nick answered. "Don't see why I should,"

"You never told me why I was in trouble," Sam pointed out, and Nick gave him an unamused glance. It was both true but not at the same time, and Sam was using the flimsiness of the statement to his advantage and Nick wasn't happy about it.

"I'm a stubborn piece of shit, aren't I?" Nick said instead, raising his flask to take a drink but lowering it with a frown when he was met with only a few drops. "Shit," he grumbled, tossing the flask onto the pillow beside him. "Out of whiskey,"

"Good," Sam said, reaching across Nick to pick up the flask. He studied the smooth metal finish with light fingers while Nick watched him bitterly.

"Fuck off," he cussed blandly, like a gut response to Sam more than any actual feeling.

"You're the one making it weird," Sam muttered, and Nick didn't seem to have it in him to argue.

He sighed and let his head fall back, closing his eyes. "I'm going to hell for sure," Nick told the ceiling.

"Is that Nickinese for you're going to show me the rest of your tattoos?" Sam asked, keeping his tone neutral and eyes on the flask in his hands. It was high quality, with a faded and peeling Black Flag sticker along the inside of its curve. It had already seen its better days, but it still had quite a few years left in it. The band logo, not so much.

"It's also a deep metaphor for the depravity of man," Nick grunted as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He continued to speak as he pulled Sam's stolen shirt over his head, "Or the ass-side of morality, poor choices, and probably most predominantly, sin,"

Sam had long since stopped paying attention to Nick's drunk ramblings, tunnel vision on the stretch of pale, inked skin that presented itself to Sam.

The tattoo on Nick's chest was massive; a ram's skull was inked into the skin of his sternum in stunning, near realistic detail, it's long, curving horns hooked up over his pecs, tip of the curve just below his collarbone, and then sloped down his ribs. The line work was a dark red, and it still looked somewhat recent.

"Haven't gotten it filled in yet," Nick whispered, his voice miles away and registered only faintly in the shallows of Sam's mind. "Gotta go back sometime next month. Out in Tulsa. Should take you with me, show you what a real car looks like..."

Sam had long since stopped paying attention. He'd unknowingly moved closer, fingers finding themselves tracing the careful lines printed permanently into Nick's skin. The tattoo shifted softly with his breaths and voice, the skin under Sam's fingertips oddly cool. He rubbed his warm thumb over the ridges of the left horn, following its length from the base of the skull upwards, then fluidly down--

Nick's hand caught Sam's wrist, his grip startlingly strong. Bright, pale eyes stared at Sam in a mix of shock and something more dangerous. He squeezed at the kid’s wrist, apprehensively, and they just sort of stared at each other.

Neither moving away.

Neither moving closer.

 _Dangerous grounds_ , Sam recalled distantly, and he could see he was edging there judging by the complex look in Nick's eyes. And Sam waited for Nick to push him away for a few moments longer, hardly even breathing.

But Nick simply didn’t move. Not away, not towards. He just held on to Sam.

And for just few seconds Sam found inside of himself a rare, intense taste of a bravery that he would not experience again for a long, long time.

He flattened his hand over Nick's chest, wide palm with thin fingers, youthful tan and so warm against the pale skin. Sam shaking seemingly in time with the steady heartbeat that thumped beneath his hand.

They were miles apart, so vastly different in so many ways. Sam was bright heat, Nick an unnatural cool. Youth and pride to aging whiskey and mature hesitation. They were separate, should've stayed so, but that irresistible magnetism was alive and pushing Sam forward, closing the gap between them.

Someone sighed, but Sam wasn't sure who had at that point.

Nick's lips were smooth and his stubble scratched at Sam's chin, nothing happening for a good few, long, long seconds. Nick had gone stiff and Sam's formerly blank mind was slowly starting to thaw, but before reality could yank Sam back, temptation pushed Nick those last couple inches over the edge.

There was no turning back.

He growled under Sam's lips and much more sturdy, stronger hands grabbed his pointed hips, yanking him into Nick's lap. Nick tilted his head and the kiss suddenly made more sense, made Sam gasp in surprise.

A cool palm slid against the nape of Sam's neck, thick, calloused fingers so gentle through his hair. Nick broke the kiss to tilt his head the other way, pushing Sam's mouth open for half a second to get his teeth around Sam’s bottom lip.

And Sam could hardly breathe, barely managed to even kiss half as properly as the man holding him.

Nervous yet excited hands slid along Nick's broad chest, pausing over the tattoo before traveling further up. Sam's arms wrapped around Nick's neck, pulled himself into the man’s chest to kiss back deeper. He was inexperienced as hell but Nick hardly minded, his own hands rubbing minutely against the heated skin of Sam's hips.

Those damned barrowed jeans, just a bit too large, slipped further down when Sam edged closer, exposing more of his skin. One of Nick's hands explored the new ground, moving further into even more dangerous territory. Nick's cool palm pressed into the dip of Sam's back, fingers inching a little further down to the warm curve of supple skin, making Sam shudder and gasp loudly against Nick's mouth.

And Nick reared back, their lips breaking wetly. Hands instantly dropped away from quite literally illegal territory. The older man stared at Sam in horror and shock.

Sam, conversely, blinked hazily at Nick, breaths gasping out of him. His tongue tracing along his lower lip, chasing the unfamiliar taste.  A perfect picture of danger.

"Shit," Nick hissed, shoving Sam out of his lap.

The intoxicated teen grunted in confusion as Nick stood, suddenly seeming like the much more sober one of the two.

It wasn't until his bag was dropped abruptly into his lap did Sam’s stupor snap. Nick was shoving his stolen shirt back on, his gaze stony.

And in something halfway between confusing and embarrassment, Sam glanced down in his lap, the bag half on his thigh half hiding his hard on.

Yes, that was an issue for a lot of very real reasons.

“I-”  Nick sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and paced the small space between the beds. Once, twice, dodging back and forth with little agitated movements. “Fuck. I’m- I need a smoke.” He scrubbed at his face, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes as he spoke. “You’re going to be in your own clothes when I get back, and then you’re going to wherever the hell it is that I’m supposed to be taking you.”

Something in Sam sort of kick started, his chest feeling tight. “I… I don’t see the problem.” They could stay. Nick could stay. The room had been paid for for the rest of the night.

“The god damned problem starts with jail time and goes rapidly downhill from there.” Nick explained in a hard voice as he let himself out, slamming to door just to make sure that there were no questions on the seriousness of what had just happened.

Sam hugged his duffle to his chest and debated following after the man. Every inch of his body south of his upper lip was all for going outside right now. He could just get his arms around Nick and … and no. Oh good god. No.

He wasn’t even the drunk one here. He didn’t have a good excuse- except that he was a sixteen year old boy and was exactly as stupid as every other sixteen year old on the planet. He had no appreciation for consequence and moved solely on impulse.

By the time Nick came back into the room, smelling faintly of smoke, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair damp and a complete mess, Sam had dressed himself in his own jeans. His hips felt safe again- which wasn’t necessarily a bonus at this point in his life. He was keeping the shirt though and if Nick wanted it back he was going to have to take if off Sam. Ha!

“Is it still raining?”

Nick licked his lips then bore his teeth. It wasn’t a friendly expression so much as a hungry one and heat instantly pooled in Sam’s gut.

“Yes it’s fucking raining, but you won't melt.”

Sam braced himself. “You can just drop me off at the bus station if you need to.”

“We’re only an hour outside Sioux Falls. I said I would take you and I’m taking you.” Nick picked up his backpack and dug deep into it, pulling out the heavy leather jacket that he’d been wearing the night before. He tossed it unceremoniously at Sam and the kid caught it in an awkward grip. “You need something to keep the rain off or you’re gunna drown.”

“I’ve got my own coat.” The very one that he’d stolen from Dean. A lightweight military jacket that hadn’t done him any favors over the past few weeks.

But Nick wasn’t listening, he was just walking out the door, muttering under his breath, “should have left you at the damn diner last night.”

Sam hefted the coat, liking something in the weight of it. He pulled it on over his own jacket and found that he liked the smell of it as well. The sleeves were a bit long, and there was a switchblade knife in the left pocket.

He liked it even more.

The rain had lessened, pittering lightly in a dreary threat against the soaked asphalt. The sky above was dark and roiling, another heavy storm waiting to burst. The tension above them was a mirror image of what weighed heavily on Sam and Nick below.

There were things in life that Sam didn’t want.

Green beans for one. Dental fillings were another. Climbing on the bike behind Nick and putting his arms around that broad chest was not one of those things. Sam wanted this very much.

For a few horrible seconds, the older man went completely still within the ring of Sam’s arms, spine rigid, helmet tight between his hands.

“You’re at least _close_ to eighteen, right?”

“Close.” Sam agreed, because sixteen was closer to eighteen than lots of other numbers. It wasn’t _technically_ a lie.

The little half truth made Nick relax notably if nothing else. “Ok.” He nodded, never once looking back over his shoulder to the kid clinging to him. “Ok. Good.”

“We can stay here tonight… wait out the rain.” Sam suggested softly. Long arms wrapping tighter around Nick’s middle.

And Sam had grown up a lot over the last two weeks. To the point that he didn’t even recognize himself, his own actions a complete surprise half the time. This right here wasn’t him. Sam didn’t proposition men probably twice his age. Hell, he didn’t even proposition girls his own age. He felt like a stranger in his own skin.

It wasn’t someone he necessarily disliked- but he didn’t trust this new person either.

“I wouldn’t last another minute alone in that room with you and we both know it.” Nick hissed and pulled his helmet into place. If there were any more words than they were lost and muffled and Sam would never know them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once shiny speaks and says thinGS. I’m amazed people sat around and actually read this stuff, it makes me really happy to see your comments even though I tend to be quiet most of the time. Just so you know the two of us are awful and self indulgent and there’s already a whole second half in the works with a pretty decent plot and stuff. Amazing huh??? We could’ve ended it here but like,,,.....why. Enjoy the gays.

 

Nick’s bike idled outside the salvage yard, muffled rumbling coming through the heavy helmet to Sam.

“You sure this is it?” He asked over his shoulder and Sam looked up at him with a quick nod.

“It’s my uncle’s place.”

“Looks like a real shithole.”

Sam pinched at Nick’s sides, angry little defense of the only place he had. In comparison to a car and numerous shitty motels, Bobby’s place, albeit ramshackle and not very visitor-suited, stayed in one place. It was a home if Sam could even name one.

“Your uncle better not be some kinda creep.”

“Oh, like you aren’t?” Either Nick couldn’t hear Sam through his helmet or he was ignoring him- either way he elected not to respond and instead killed the engine.

The distant sound of someone thumping down the stairs, a few rickety doors opening and closing accompanied by the muted, rushed noise of dogs climaxed with a large, burly man, face half covered by a worn baseball cap, bursting through the front door with a shotgun in his hands. At his feet were two large dogs, a rott and a pitbull mix, snarling and standing protectively at his side. The man cocked the gun in warning.

“Who’s there?” He called out roughly.

Sam flew off the back of the bike before Nick could respond, yanking off the helmet. “Bobby, Bobby, it’s me! It’s me, Sam, put down the gun, _please_ ,” and his uncle probably wouldn’t shoot them- but it was a tentative maybe.

The man, Bobby, went stiff. The two dogs at his heels glanced up, worried and confused, and many complex emotions crossed the old man’s expression before he tossed the gun aside and was down the steps to rein Sam into his arms.

“You scared the shit outta me,” Bobby growled, squeezing Sam tight enough to hurt, but it was nothing if not welcome. “Dammit to hell, boy. You’re brother’s been calling me every few hours since you left. Can’t even give an old man some peace.” He thunked Sam on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. And he seemed to take notice of Nick for the first time. “Sam, you did not hitchhike your way up here. Of all the dumbass-”

“Bobby, this is Nick.” A hurried introduction. “He’s a good guy.” Sam heard himself saying and was shocked to realize that he believed it.

Which seemed to surprise all three of them in varying amounts, but Nick was popping the kickstand on his bike and getting off, tucking his helmet beneath an arm and holding a hand out to Bobby.

“Hi.” That was all, no _sir_ or any other formality tacked on. Sam wouldn’t have known what to do with himself if Nick had.

But Bobby didn’t seem offended, he just took the younger man’s hand and shook it with a purpose. Dark eyes flicked from Nick, and his bike and to the heavy leather jacket draped around Sam’s narrow shoulders.

“You come in and let me get you a drink.” Which was about the same as Bobby asking this man to come and join the family.

The dogs, which once looked frightening and ferocious with their bared teeth and size, were on Sam the moment the threat passed. Sam yelped as slobbery doggy kisses were planted all over his face, but Bobby didn’t make any move to save him. Instead, he moved closer to Nick and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder.

“We need to talk.” He said firmly, low enough that Sam couldn’t hear. But when Sam started laughing, he softened and added, “Thanks for bringing him home.”

Bobby strode ahead--that was as affectionate as he could manage--and got Nick a beer while Sam came following a little while after, the dogs at his side. Bobby and Nick were left alone in the kitchen while Sam made a beeline for the bathroom.

An ice cold beer was set onto the frayed wood of the dining room table in front of Nick. Bobby took a seat across from him, something a bit stronger in his grip. He looked weary and sleep deprived, but ultimately as if a deep burden had lifted from his shoulders.

“I picked him up night before last.” Nick explained as he pulled the top off his beer. “He was hustling pool, very badly, out in Nebraska. He’s a good kid.”

“Doesn’t have the sense he was born with if you ask me. Him and his daddy and his brother, all a bunch of idjits.” He took a drink and hissed softly from between his teeth.

Sam came back in, dogs trailing at his feet, grinning at anyone and everyone. “I dumped my bag in my room.” Which he hoped that Bobby understood meant that he had no intention of leaving… possibly ever.

His uncle took another long drink, “after you get yourself settled in, Princess, you might wanna call your big brother before he worries himself into an ulcer- thinking you’re dead on the side of the road god knows where.”

Sam had spent the last few weeks worrying about himself and everything he was running from. He hadn’t been willing to take time out of that to fully consider what running away would do to his brother. The guilt promised almost enough to ruin a perfectly good running away from home. He’d do just about anything for his brother. Anything other than go back.

But Dean would understand.

Dean had to.

And Sam wanted to call, wanted to hear the comforting familiarity of Dean cussing him out. But as he reached for the phone he had to hesitate, a bit of that old unease coming back. What if John answered the phone?

Sam couldn’t deal with that. Not right now. Not until all the bruises had faded, or the ach in his ribs had mended. Maybe not even after that.

“Give it here.” Bobby could read the weird hesitation with ease, it was almost comforting.

With something that felt an awful lot like relief Sam handed over the phone to Bobby. “Bunch of idjits.” He mumbled as he dialed.

 He stood there waiting, hands shoved down deep in his pockets, listening to the faint ringing, risking a glanced over at Nick who was nursing his beer bottle, not even half way done yet.

Nick raised his brows. _You okay?_

Sam shrugged.

It scared Nick a little that he understood that.

It scared Sam a little too.

So maybe that made them even in some way.

“Dean- no I ain’t- slow down, boy. Is John there? No I don’t wanna talk to him. Take the damn phone upstairs. Just do it, alright.” Bobby sighed and looked over at Sam for support, because god help anyone who had to deal with the Winchesters. “Here, tell him you’re not dead.”

Sam sort of forgot about Nick as he took the phone and turned away, mumbling a reluctant “hey, Dean.”

“Oh, you son of a bitch.” Dean hissed into the receiver before launching into many loving insults.

And Sam cradled the phone and smiled and walked as far away from the adults as the phone cord would allow him to. He managed to say a few soft, sort of apologetic things whenever Dean would let him get a word in edgewise. He had no idea it would feel so good to be missed.

Once Dean had run out of insults, and got a solemn promise from his baby brother that he was alright, all the while promising back that he wouldn't speak a word of this subterfuge to their dad, Dean let him go. Sam held the phone to his chest, sort of leaning against the doorframe out into the hall, listening to the hushed sounds of Nick and Bobby talking over their drinks. Just breathing for a few seconds.

 “How about them Mets?” Nick offered uneasily, to which Bobby only grunted.

It was almost painful small talk and Sam loved it.

Loved to listen to the man suddenly out of his element.

But it couldn’t go on. Nick had been so good to Sam… in more ways than one, and it would just be cruel to let him suffer much longer.

Sam shuffled back in and hung the phone back in the cradle on the wall. He risked a sidelong glance at Nick, easy little smile that corrupted itself quickly when he noticed the man was scratching at his neck, tugging down the collar of his shirt just enough to show a hint of tattoo.

Somehow Nick managed to catch his eye and then things got a little awkward.

“I better get going.” Nick announced as he stood. Little nod in Sam’s direction, smaller nod to Bobby who raised his glass in a subtle toast.

“You don’t wanna stay? You can’t wait out that storm we were running from.” Sam offered before he could realize what he was doing, remember that this wasn’t his house to invite company too, and the fact that there were very few things in life that Bobby hated more than visitors.

Nick just looked at him with a remarkably unreadable expression, a long unblinking stare that went on and on to the point that Sam couldn’t help but wonder if the man was silently counting to ten.

“I’ve got places to be late to.” He finally excused himself.

Sam knew a lie when he heard one. Nick didn’t have a single place to be, but apparently this early afternoon was still heavy on his mind. It’s not like Sam could hold that against him. It probably wasn’t everyday that he ended up with a lapful of horny teenager- at least Sam hoped not. He liked to think that today was something special.

That _he_ was something special.

“I’ll walk you out… lock the gate up after you.”

Nick got the smallest frown but let Sam trail after him, and the dogs after Sam. An odd parade of sorts, out through the gravel and mud, back towards Nick’s waiting bike.

Sam shooed the dogs away before they reached their destination, a silent warning to his intentions. If Nick noticed it, or not, he didn’t give any indication.

“Nick,” Sam’s hand was around the man’s elbow, squeezing it gently. Nick didn’t stiffen, which was comforting. “Uh. Y-You like cars right? Can I at least show you around the junk yard before you go? Might see something cool, or whatever,”

A pained look crossed Nick’s face before he covered it with something less readable and gave a curt nod. “Sure,”

Nick knew what Sam was doing. Guiding them out of sight under a false pretense, and Nick wasn’t resisting in the slightest. He didn’t even bother trying to convince himself that it was for the cars, not when Sam was smiling shyly and leading himself away like a lamb to slaughter.

“Dean knows cars better than I do,” Sam said, falling in step next to Nick, shoulders brushing. “I mean, I’ve helped him work on the Impala now and again, but...’m not that good,”

“I could teach you,” Nick offered awkwardly. They’d rounded the corner of the house, out of view of any windows, deeper into the mess of scrap metal and broken cars. Sam swiveled on his heel and walked backwards in front of Nick so their eyes met.

“Would you?” He asked softly, far too hopeful.

Nick swallowed heavily.“Sam,” he voice thick with warning and something else. He wasn’t telling Sam to stop. He should be, but shit, he wasn’t.

Sam was too close all too suddenly, just a few inches shorter than Nick. Light, nervous hands rested on his upper arms, stupid, too big puppy dog eyes watching Nick’s face.

And Nick’s eyes had gone a little wide. He was caught, they both knew it.

“You’re leaving,” Sam said quietly, and whatever little reserve Nick had managed to cling too fell out of his grasp instantly.

“Don’t think about that.” Was Nick saying that? Maybe, who knows, nothing mattered really. Nick grabbed Sam’s sides and ducked down those couple of inches and kissed him, a sudden clash of teeth and none too gentle bump of noses. It made Sam’s lips sting but he didn’t back down, kissed back with all he could even though it was nothing in comparison.

Somehow Nick got Sam pressed up against the side of a car, lips locked and hands in places they were not allowed to be. Sam shuddered as Nick’s hands slid under his shirt, another palm cupping the jut of his hip as his thumb rubbed soft little circles into his skin, though the chill of oncoming rain had nothing to do with it.

“What should I think about instead?” Sam managed to breath out somewhere down the line. Nick’s mouth had moved along Sam’s neck, biting the soft skin there and mouthing at his fluttering pulse. And Sam was weak, trembling and whimpering with each cut of teeth. If it weren’t for the car at his back and his death grip on Nick’s shirt, his knees probably would have given out and sent him tumbling down.

Nick paused for a second, long enough to get out “It’s going to rain,” soft murmured, a vibration of sound against Sam’s chest.

“You- you want me to think about the weather?”

One of those big strong hands slid from a hip to roam over the curve of Sam’s ass. And he said something more, but Sam had lost the ability to understand human speech.

He wrapped his arms around Nick’s shoulders and tilted his head back against the cold metal of whatever car he was pinned against. Overheard, the clouds hung bleak and grey, drooping low and roiling, heavy with rain. Sam could smell it in the air, in the breeze brushing his bangs back. Nick was almost a part of it, he lacked so much warmth.

Except his mouth. He moved over Sam’s throat in a searing line. Purposeful and slow.

“Nick,” Sam managed eventually, words building at the base of his throat, needing to be said, but instead he tugged Nick back up and kissed him again. Rationality told Sam he probably would never see this man after today. A small part of him, a hopeful part that refused to face the truth of it, pretended that their moment together wouldn’t end.

Sam’s shirt was shoved halfway off his torso, leaving his skin bare to Nick’s hands and the elements. Nick’s mouth kissed Sam wherever he could, roaming over uncharted territory, sucking and biting and bruising where it wouldn’t be seen. Sam was a mess under flashes of teeth and tongue, fingers gripping at Nick’s short hair as he squirmed desperately underneath him.

It wasn’t till it started to drizzle that Nick finally pulled away.

Sam’s hair was in disarray, shirt rumpled and tossed about, jeans unbuttoned who knew when, and his chest a portrait of purple and red. Nick should’ve been disgusted. Instead, he actually looked rather proud of himself.

“I need to go,” Nick told them both in a rather uncertain voice, tugging Sam’s shirt back down and even putting his pants back together.

Sam nodded. Words would only complicate things further. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t.

“You can keep the jacket,” Nick added, kissing Sam’s forehead. He didn’t pull away for a while, nose buried in Sam’s hair, hands still toying with the frayed edges of Sam’s jeans. “Think you’re gonna be okay?”

Sam twitched his head up and down slightly, wordless. Nick knew what Sam wanted to say to that, but he instead he did what needed to be done.

Sam walked Nick to his bike, watched him get on and kick it to life. The spare helmet sat on the back, tucked in a satchel threshed to the bike, was a cherry red invitation to something Sam couldn’t have. Nick shoved his own helmet on, a sleek black bulking thing with a tinted visor that he flipped up. Soft black cushion hid most of his face except for his eyes, glacier blue and stunning against a backdrop of wet grey and metal.

“Be safe,” Sam said. His voice was meek and distance, too distraught to be his own. Nick nodded, might have even replied but Sam couldn’t tell, and flipped the visor back down. The rain was coming down a bit heavier, making Nick’s bike and helmet shine. He gave the motorcycle some gas, a loud, thundering roar that sang a closing number accompanied by tossed gravel and distant rumbling in the sky as Nick swung the bike around.

Driving away from the junkyard, from a falling apart house.

Sam was soaking by the time he got back up to the porch, hair dripping into his eyes and down the back of his neck. If it weren't for the heavy jacket he’d be shivering. And maybe he should go inside and dry off, but he could still faintly hear the fading rumbles of an engine cutting through the rain.

“You’re gunna catch your death out here.” Bobby lectured as he joined him by the stairs, a heavy flannel shirt hanging useless in his hands. Sam obviously didn’t need it and the old man just sighed and crossed his arms, looking every bit like the worried father that Sam had never been fortunate enough to be graced with.

“I’m alright.”

“You sure, kid? You look like hell.”

Sam turned his face into the wind and pulled _his_ jacket tighter around himself, smiling to himself. “Yeah. I’m sure.”


End file.
